Chapter 2

Trying to control his jittery leg outside the Minister's office, amidst flying green and purple memos and chatting wizards and witches, Cormac felt the urge to go through his speech again. He did not want to mess this opportunity up.

However, instead of repeating for the nth time the words he now knew by heart, his mind found a loophole: his motives. Blimey, he needed to know them in case the Minister questioned his reasons. Cormac stared at his hands that rested over his ankle and reined his emotions.

What were his reasons for pushing this issue? And, why him?

Cormac was (still) a self-confident man, though, he conceded, many would describe him as an arrogant prick.

A self-confident, handsome man, mind you. He accepted his qualities and did not consider him to have changed in this regard during the last years. But, time had been demanding on him.

Experience had changed him.

Heartbreaks. But, above all, losses.

After awfully finishing his seventh-year thanks to his only (and quite shameful) quidditch intervention as keeper, and expecting professional quidditch to be cancelled because of the looming war, he gladly decided to take his uncle Tiberius's offered job at the Ministry. From there, he would climb to the top. He knew he could achieve anything he set his mind on, his two Es and three Os proof of it.

After Dumbledore's death, his dear grandmother encouraged his decision to become a Ministry employee, claiming quidditch games were becoming a dangerous venue. His confident uncle, moreover, assured that at the Ministry Cormac would be safe under his supervision and connections.

The Wizengamot Administration Services became, then, his place of work almost as soon as he graduated, a great place to start building his way to the top. Not many weeks passed, however, when Cormac recognized with horror how utterly wrong his uncle had been. Confusion, chaos and distrust, followed the fall of the Ministry. His uncle had been devastated by the death of one of his closest friends but told him that now more than ever, discretion would make them survive. A difficult task, given the injustice and tragedy of it all.

Crazy, demented Death Eaters took the Ministry. But not for nothing, Cormac was a determined and strong-willed wizard. If it weren't for these qualities, he wouldn't have had the nerve to keep going to work every day, helping however he could.

As he experienced the fear that ran rampant through the Ministry corridors, he knew this was no stroll in the park. He couldn't be blind to the cruelties of war.

This was serious shit.

By August, two months after starting to work, he had seen horrendous things that not even his uncle Tiberius could save him from. Frequently asked to do record-keeping during the muggle-born trials down in the court chambers, it was infinite torture when muggle-born people he knew from Hogwarts were in front of him. Cormac wished with all his heart it wouldn't happen to anyone he cared for. More than ever, he wanted to flee the country with those he loved. Fuck the Death Eaters, fuck the dementors, and fuck that awful toad that gave him the creeps.

But, it was too late.

Watching every morning and evening the new sinister statue in the atrium, made him scared of what was to come, an ominous augury that chilled his spine. Cormac was young, a kid, even if he thought of himself as an adult man at the time, observing the inhumanities, injustices, and prejudices of war. Only his colleagues knew how the display of barbarism made him throw up until only bile was all that was left. How he trembled as he was called to record yet again another unfair trial. The three of them - Afton Smith, Eloise Peasegood, and himself-, learned to cover each other like brothers in arms.

And yet, the worst, the loss that still broke him at night and had changed his life, was his grandmother's death. His dear Móreí.

The first night and the following without her, he had sent bombarda after bombarda in their vast summer back garden. The impotence, sadness, anger and hate flowing from his wand. Pain and guilt mixed with tears and howls. One of the two people he called family, was forever gone, marking him deep in his heart.

Duelling, imagining he killed those bastards, became his nightly activity before bed for the next few months. Cormac had to learn to control himself, however, when his short temper nearly got him killed whenever he crossed the toad and that Yaxley arsehole. He learned the hard way, some scars proof of that.

Months passed in an agonising blur. Wake-up. Eat. Work. Train. Sleep. Again. And again.

When the last battle finally came, he was there, of course, having heard in the Ministry how the Death Eaters were called to fight for their master. He arrived at Hogwarts just as Oliver Wood crossed towards an enchanted room, his wand eager to jinx those he hated the most. Violence reigned but he miraculously managed to survive. And never did the couple of deaths he caused took his sleep in the following years.

Cormac thought better times would come. Yet, numbing years passed. Years when he would sit alone in the deadened darkness of his empty home. Until he met her, and then life had meaning again.

Miraculously life filled and swelled with colour. Smell. Emotions. Love that shoved away the hollowness that had haunted him. Merlin, he fell in love. He fell so hard, so desperately and passionately, that he gave her everything, including his hope and wish for a better future. He dreamed of having a family with her. He promised her the world. A life with love. And she told him she wished for it too. Blissfully happy was how he felt during those heartwarming months.

Then… Maybe he had been blindly trusting and intense about it. Maybe he had been oblivious to her true wishes. But, blimey, hadn't they all rushed after the end of the war? For the next five years, many had married or had children.

He had rushed. That was the word. And had been foolhardy. Oh, and reckless as well. All those that define a true Gryffindor like him. So, the heartbreak, the fall from heaven… it broke him. His beautiful and fun traitor, with long almond hair and fair body, made him well aware of his shortcomings.

Yes, he was self-confident bordering on arrogant, though highly critical of himself and others. Yes, he was determined to win to the point of surviving stubbornness. Yes, he didn't like to take orders from others, he preferred to make those orders. He knew his fucking defects well! But, fuck, he had passionately loved her. And she had hurt him and made him question his value. Brought out all his insecurities.

Cormac entered a black pit. His dear uncle could not say anything that would bring him back.

"She's just another bird," Pat and John, his best friends, had tried to console him when they saw him like a dementor had sucked all his happiness, leaving him an empty shell.

The only ally he had was time. As months passed, he moved on from that bird. Cormac still felt numb, but with time he was able to return to some normalcy. Now careful, his mind whispered to take it slow next time, or better yet, not at all. He convinced himself that he was better off alone. The time he impulsively and passionately fell for a woman was gone.

As he sat waiting to enter Shaklebolt's office, he remembered that even though he had felt back in control, he knew he lacked purpose. Ambition. Where was that self-confident Cormac? The one that wanted and knew could take the world? He needed to be right back on track and do something meaningful with his life. He considered training and going back to his original dream as a professional keeper. It wasn't late for him and had resumed his training. Yet, life had a surprise that would rattle his world.

Not long ago, his colleague Smith had asked him to join him for lunch in the cafeteria. They normally avoided the cafeteria food but that day Smith had to leave early and preferred to finish his day's work. He was about to say no but then, as if pulled by an invisible thread, he decided to go and have lunch with Smith and Peasegood, getting the only available table beside the Golden Trio.

Long were the days when they despised each other. Though not friends, they civilly addressed each other in public. They were all adults now. He was 26, the immature teenager that deep inside didn't know how to fit in and be liked, gone.

That day, while he quickly ate his roast beef sandwich, he heard about James, Harry's son, about how he had been afraid to fly but had dared to mount his toy broom and learn. James now loved flying.

As Peasegood and Smith chatted, he heard Hermione reply in that knowing tone he remembered so well and that caused a small smile on his face, "It takes courage to grow up and become who you really are."

"And that wonderfully useful quote is by…?" asked Ron, boredom in his voice, causing a playful snicker to come out of Harry's mouth.

"Because you absolutely want to know, I'll tell you, of course. It's by Edward Estlin Cummings, an American poet."

"Thank you. I would have been worried in dread tonight if you hadn't told me." Ron replied in a tone that reminded him of the twins.

They kept chit-chatting until Cormac heard Harry clearing his throat.

"Hermione." Harry started, "Er… we wanted to ask you… Have you thought if you want to take action with… Er… you know?"

Silence conquered their table before Hermione replied, albeit quietly.

"Why?"

"Well…" It was Ron's turn to talk like carefully going around a frightened animal. "We thought, it's been months since you left the IMC… that bloody bastard …"

Hermione exhaled, tiredly. Cormac couldn't squash his curiosity and mumbled short answers to his own talkative companions.

"Harry, Ron, there's nothing I can do. You know that. Being muggle-born is still an issue in Magical Law. They won't believe me. I've … already given up that path."

"But the three of us, we can do something about it," Harry assured.

"And then, what Harry? We can look for someone to help us win the case because I can't do it alone, I accept it, it's just me… Harry, Ron, he's a pureblood. He has connections none of us has. It's me, a muggle-born, against him."

Cormac listened to Hermione's reasons. What were they talking about? He knew she had left the IMC abruptly and had twice observed how she had struggled to even walk out of the floo. He could relate, months ago he had felt the same, though probably for different reasons. Had it been because of her blood status? Cormac swallowed with difficulty before gulping down his water.

Hermione continued, "It would take me a lot of energy, which I don't have, a lot of money, which I don't have either, and a lot of time, which I prefer to devote to my research. I've discussed it with Kingsley. He agrees."

"But…" Harry tried.

"NO buts, Harry. I don't want it either. That's … how things work here. No lawyers like in muggle trials. Bribes, corruption, and subjective opinions rule the Ministry. I'm… completely done. I can't fight it alone."

They all kept silent until Hermione soothed them. "Boys, I'm fine now. I just want to leave it behind."

"Fine," both of them replied.

Cormac, however, was the one unable to sleep that night. His mind was in full swing, not letting the information he learned rest, anger and impotence seeping from every pore. Images and memories that he long wanted to forget clear again in his mind. Guilt.

By morning, his stubbornness had transformed him. His grandmother's voice rang in his mind, urging him to take a stance, praising him that he always did right. Cormac wanted to show her, from wherever spirits were, that he had truly become the great wizard she told him time and time again he would become. That he was strong and followed their principle. He wasn't a self-sacrificing hero, no, but he could choose his battles, becoming a warrior that took the bull by its horns, that laughed at its enemies. That image brought his heart to thrum happily.

With a new purpose, he needed to show not only his grandmother but himself that he finally had learned to make the right choices. That he again had control over his life and destiny.

And that brought him to the cherry wood upholstered chair he seated on outside the Minister's office, a fortnight later. After scrawling his plan on paper and preparing a quick draft of his strategy, he petitioned for a reunion with Minister Kingsley Shaklebolt.

"Mr McLaggen, the Minister will receive you now," the secretary politely said. Cormac stood up, calmly arranged his robes, and thanked him.

Cormac McLaggen, a self-confident and handsome wizard, mind you, walked the path to change the Ministry.

Little did he know a certain thread lively pulsed that morning once he took the first step.