CHAPTER 18
Something or Other Hits the Fan
Cornelius Fudge was having a bad day. The Death Eaters who had been captured by the Aurors and the Order of the Phoenix at Malfoy Manor had been brought to the Ministry (Petrified, to prevent escape) and intensively interrogated as to the reason for their gathering at Malfoy Manor.
Needless to say, the Ministry had got little information out of them, none of it helpful. The Death Eaters expressed scorn, contempt, and disdain for their captors, and a singular lack of cooperation.
At present they were still being held at Ministry headquarters. Most of Fudge's headaches during the past week were due to the difficulty of deciding just what to do with the Death Eaters. The majority of the wizarding world was, understandably, not willing to see them go free. However, Fudge was doubtful whether even imprisonment in Azkaban would be effective, considering the apparent ability of some of the more clever (or more determined) prisoners recently to escape its supposedly secure walls.
There was always the Dementor's Kiss...but Fudge's mind rebelled whenever he thought in that direction. The whole concept was so unsavory; so--well, unthinkable, really. Of course, where Sirius Black had been concerned he had--albeit reluctantly--agreed to administer this punishment because there had been so much public pressure on him. But as it turned out, Black wasn't the one responsible for all those murders after all--it was Voldemort. Fudge shivered. Only think if he had been responsible for subjecting an innocent man to the Dementor's Kiss! He had nightmares about it sometimes.
He shuffled the papers on his desk, drawing out that day's Daily Prophet. The banner headline read, "Death Eaters to Go Scott-Free? Public Calls for Executions; Minister Indecisive." Fudge grunted. Indecisive, was he? More like between a rock and a hard place.
Not for the first time he privately wondered what Albus Dumbledore would do if he were in Fudge's shoes. Not that Dumbledore would be any better at this thankless job than he was, Fudge thought sourly. All right, so he'd guessed right about Voldemort returning--did that make him any better than Fudge? Some people thought so, he was aware. Well, he thought gloomily, if Dumbledore wants my job, maybe I should just give it to him. See how he likes having to please everyone--
A sharp rap came at the door. "Enter!" Fudge called, rather glad of the interruption. The door opened and Kingsley Shacklebolt entered.
"Good afternoon, Minister," he said heartily.
"Eh? Oh, afternoon, Kingsley." Fudge braced himself. There could only be one reason for Kingsley seeking him out at this particular moment. He waited, cringing inside.
Kingsley surveyed Fudge kindly. He didn't envy the Minister his job in these difficult times, but some sort of decision really had to be made, and soon. He took the bull by the horns.
"Well, sir. Have you decided on a course of action, then?" he asked. He rocked back on his heels, waiting for Fudge to gather his thoughts. But when he merely continued to stare moodily into space, Kingsley spoke again.
"Minister?"
Fudge appeared to shake himself. "Yes, yes," he said crossly. "What is it?" As if he didn't know.
"I am sorry to push you on this, sir," Kingsley said with a hint of apology in his voice. "It's just that--well--I'm afraid the people are on the verge of rioting, you see, and I can hardly think of a better way to bring us to the attention of the Muggles than a full-blown riot outside the Ministry building, can you, sir?
Fudge started violently. "Great Merlin in the grotto, no!" He contemplated the contents of his desktop for a moment, then looked up at Kingsley, a martial light gleaming in his eye.
"I've been far too slack with these Death Eaters. They simply can't be trusted," he declared. Kingsley stared at him. Had Fudge truly ever thought they could be?
"Very well, then. We'll have to punish them, obviously." Fudge dithered a bit, not wanting to come right out and say it in so many words. Then he visibly gathered himself together and said shakily, "The Dementor's Kiss." Kingsley raised an eyebrow. This was decisive indeed--but he knew the Minister's tendencies well.
"Ah...if you'd just be kind enough to write that out for me, please, sir?" Kingsley said. This was usually the sticking point with Fudge. He was good at making grand pronouncements but slippery when it came to putting anything in writing. Because of this, many of his decisions were never acted upon. Kingsley thought it was too much to expect that Fudge had been cornered so easily this time.
However, the Minister surprised him. Fudge drew his quill out of its inkpot and took a fresh piece of parchment out of a desk drawer. Hesitantly, then with bolder strokes as his resolution firmed, he wrote:
To the Warden of Azkaban Prison:
Be it known that I hereby declare that all Death Eaters delivered herewith shall be subjected to the Dementor's Kiss. This sentence shall be administered without exception, without question, and without delay.
Cornelius Fudge
Minister of Magic
He signed his name with a flourish. For a few moments he tapped his quill and just stared at the parchment. Kingsley cleared his throat, and Fudge glanced up quickly. "Right," he muttered. He sanded the parchment and rolled it into a scroll. Kingsley extended his hand eagerly, and Fudge reluctantly handed it over.
Kingsley read it through (not very trusting, is he? Fudge thought indignantly) then rolled it up again with a snap. "Thank you, Minister," he said simply. Fudge looked up at him worriedly.
"Am I doing the right thing, Kingsley?" he asked plaintively. "Only I don't see what else I can do, really..." His voice trailed off.
"It is the right thing, sir--it's the only choice you have, as I see it," said Kingsley. "Anything else would only be a half-measure--and we've already seen that half-measures don't work." He turned to go.
"Kingsley--you--you'll let me know, won't you?" asked Fudge.
"Of course, Minister."
Fudge made a small dismissive gesture with his hand. He didn't watch as Kingsley left.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
The next day when the Owl Post arrived at the Hogwarts breakfast table, there was a tremendous buzz of excitement as soon as everyone saw the full-page article--and picture--on the front page of the Daily Prophet.
"I can't believe it!" Hermione breathed. "He's actually made a decision and stuck to it for once."
"Yeah--too bad he didn't do it last time he had them in Azkaban," Ron said. "Just think of all the murders he could have prevented."
Hermione nudged him and jerked her head toward Harry, frowning fiercely. Harry caught this out of the corner of his eye and smiled reluctantly.
"Well, he's not wrong, Hermione. Sirius might still be alive if Fudge had had a bit more backbone a year ago," he said. "It's hard to believe he's really done this. The Dementor's Kiss--wow, who'd have thought it?"
They examined the large picture in fascination. Ten Death Eaters, most of them on the elderly side, were lined up against a wall, presumably somewhere inside of Azkaban and obviously Petrified, awaiting their turn at the hands--or lips, rather--of the Dementors. One of them was in the grip of a Dementor when the picture was snapped, his mouth opened in a silent scream as his soul was ripped from his body by the corpse-like being. Harry shivered, knowing firsthand what that felt like. Not for the first time, he found himself feeling rather glad that although wizard photographs could move, there was no sound.
Reactions varied throughout the Great Hall. Some people were hopeful that Fudge's uncharacteristic choice of the drastic and controversial punishment by Dementor's Kiss was a sign that he was finally willing to acknowledge the need for action against Voldemort and his followers. Others, however, were not so optimistic.
"Well, he had to do it, didn't he?" Professor Sprout said indignantly. "Of course he did! He'd soon be ousted from his comfortable position if he hadn't done something. People would have been calling for his head soon." She shook her head, clearly not impressed. "If you ask me, it was more a matter of his own self-preservation than anything else. Why, I'm willing to bet my entire supply of dragon-dung mulch that Fudge is hiding in his office at this very moment, too cowardly to face the public's criticism."
Snape couldn't help staring at the picture with unwilling fascination. He could all too easily envision his own face frozen in that wide-eyed, horrified cry. The chatter flowed around him unnoticed as gruesome thoughts roiled in his mind.
Professor McGonagall listened in silence, sipping absently at her cup of tea. She glanced down the table and caught Dumbledore's eye. He sent her a tiny wink, but his expression remained serious. After a moment he rose and faced the students, waiting for them to quiet down. Those at the front nudged their neighbors when they realized the Headmaster was waiting to speak, and eventually a wave of silence rippled over the Great Hall.
"Before you go about your day, I would like to say something," Dumbledore began. "Most of you have noticed the Daily Prophet's leading story. I imagine there will be a great deal of discussion about it over the next few days. Regardless of your personal opinion of the Minister of Magic, you must recognize that he has made a very difficult decision, with the best of intentions." His gaze roamed over the students' faces, pausing now and then as if to assess their widely varied expressions.
"Time will tell whether his choice was the right one," Dumbledore continued. He eyed the front row over the tops of his spectacles. "You are all aware to a greater or lesser degree that a time of great conflict is approaching. We will not all, of course, be faced with choices as difficult or momentous as those the Minister has had to make. But each of us would do well to look inside ourselves--to know who we are and what we stand for--and to what extremes we are willing to go to stand up for our beliefs. I do not think it an exaggeration to say that a thorough knowledge of yourselves may very well be the most valuable thing you take with you when you leave Hogwarts."
Dumbledore seemed to look at Draco when he said this. From where Harry sat, he couldn't be sure. But Draco suddenly lost the glazed look he had had, and his eyes shifted furtively to see if anyone had noticed. When his glance crossed Harry's, his eyes narrowed and he hunched closer to the table, staring down at his plate.
Ron and Hermione hadn't noticed the little byplay. With the majority of the other students, they hung on Dumbledore's words, their expressions somber. When he dismissed them, they filed out of the Great Hall with considerably less noise and confusion than usual. If all of them did not exactly take Dumbledore's advice to heart, at least his seriousness had made a notable impression on them.
Harry was not the only one who felt Dumbledore's words had been meant especially for Draco. Snape, too, had been an interested observer as Dumbledore spoke. He observed Draco's reaction upon discovering Harry pointedly staring at him.
Snape reflected that Draco was surely aware that not only his fellow Slytherins but most of the other students as well knew of his mother's demise, and some of them even had some vague idea of how it had happened. While Snape's was not normally an empathetic nature, his own less-than-happy experience as a student had uniquely suited him to understand how Draco must feel under the open scrutiny of his peers.
Maybe, Snape thought, it's not a bad thing for him to learn firsthand that unexpected tragedy was likely to strike wherever Voldemort went, even if it was not directly caused by him. Your life was never stable--you were never truly safe--once you became Voldemort's to command. You never knew what might be demanded of you or, as with Narcissa, what accidents might befall you, once you strayed down that particular garden path. None of the people he knew who had done so had come to any good end, certainly. He rose, somewhat startled to find the staff table deserted and himself about to be late for class.
Dumbledore and Professor McGonagall had followed the students out of the Great Hall and stood watching as they dispersed to their morning classes. Professor McGonagall sighed, and Dumbledore looked over at her.
"What?" he asked.
She frowned. "Oh, I don't know, Albus. Somehow I just feel so--so--unsettled, I suppose." She gestured toward the students walking down the corridor. "They seem so terribly young to have such serious matters on their minds." She looked sad.
"Courage, Minerva," Dumbledore said, and gently patted her arm. "I believe there is still a little time before the storm is upon us. We shall, all of us, simply have to do the best we can." He smiled at her and started to walk away. She lingered at the top of the staircase, and he looked back. "Coming, Professor?"
Professor McGonagall shook her head. "No. I'm off to the Library. Since I have a free period this morning, I thought I'd start researching some practical applications of transfiguration for the younger students. Changing rats into teacups is all very well, but it would hardly help if one were confronted by a Death Eater with evil intentions, now, would it? It's high time they learned something more useful, Albus."
"Capital, capital," Dumbledore exclaimed "Well, then--I'll leave you to it." He continued down the stairs toward the private revolving stairway to his office. Professor McGonagall turned toward the Library, her thoughts in turmoil. Although in her heart she felt Fudge had had no choice but to use the Dementors as he had, she--like Harry--couldn't quite banish the picture in her mind of the Death Eater undergoing the Dementor's Kiss. She told herself ruthlessly that it had been necessary--and doubtless better than he deserved for the harm he had no doubt inflicted on any number of innocent people in his time.
But another part of her wasn't as sure that it was right...and she wondered, as she found herself doing frequently of late, where it would all end.
And, in other circles, other concerned parties were wondering the same thing.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
Lucius Malfoy flung the Daily Prophet down in a rage. Bellatrix, from where she huddled by the fire, roused enough to look up at him. He strode up and down the hearth, lips twisted in fury, muttering to himself. She watched him for a few moments, until she couldn't stand it any longer.
"Really, Lucius," she said dully. "What will you accomplish by pacing like that?" She sighed wearily. "You make my head ache."
Lucius barely heard her over the pounding in his head. Why had the Dark Lord allowed this to happen? Surely he and Narcissa had proven their loyalty time and time again and were entitled to his protection? How could this have happened? And just what had happened?
Indeed, events had moved with confusing swiftness on that fateful night. Somehow intrudes had gained access to the house--his house! There was treachery afoot, he was sure, for such a thing to be possible. He would need to conside rwhat to do about that, certainly. Kidnapping all of his guests, who were there at the Dark Lord's behest--and stealing them away to the Ministry! Unheard of. Monstrous! And inconceivably, the Dark Lord had allowed it to happen--right under his nose, as it were.
And Narcissa. His love, his compass through their murky and often dangerous dealings with the Dark Lord. His everything. Gone.
And Voldemort was doing nothing.
Bellatrix, seeing that Lucius was all but unaware of her existence at present, subsided back into her own miserable thoughts.
But Lucius began thinking. Dangerous thoughts, of revenge. Not just against the Order of the Phoenix and the Ministry of Magic.
Thoughts of revenge against Voldemort.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
The Muggle Prime Minister was working late that night. As the day wore on he became aware of an odd sensation of a burden lightening--what burden, he couldn't have said. At the same time, he sensed a subtle shift in the atmosphere, as if storm clouds were gathering over the world. A strange feeling of menace, almost, was in the air.
He shook himself. Here he had been priding himself on all he had accomplished today, and now look at him. Menace in the air, indeed! He stood and stretched, turning to look out over the sleeping city. Pity, really, that he couldn't do all his work when no one was around to bother him. He got so much more done without the constant interruption of telephones, meetings, people always wanting something from him.
As he stood looking out, his mind beginning to wander, he heard a dry little cough behind him. He froze. What--? There was silence. Just when he had nearly convinced himself it was his overworked mind playing tricks on him, he heard it again--a polite cough. No, he thought, no, not--
"Ahem. Excuse me--Minister?" came an elderly-sounding voice. He knew that voice. He'd hoped he would never hear it again. With extreme reluctance, he turned. A small, very old oil painting hung on the wall across from his desk. It featured an old gentleman sleeping in a chair beside a table, but now that gentleman was awake and looking straight out of the picture, unmistakably right at him. The Prime Minister felt a bit faint and put out a hand to brace himself against his desk.
"Yes?" he said weakly. "What--what may I do for you?"
"The Minister of Magic would like a word, sir. If it's convenient."
The Prime Minister thought sourly that as far as he was concerned, there would never be a convenient time. Resentfully, he nodded.
"Oh, I suppose now is as good as any time," he said sarcastically--meaning, of course, that no time was good.
Abruptly, his fireplace began to swirl with greenish flames, and Fudge appeared. He stepped out of the flames briskly, brushing minute specks of ash from his sleeve.
"Good evening, my dear sir," he said. "You must excuse my intruding on you like this, but something has happened that I think you ought to know about." He fished in his robe, patting the folds of cloth until there was a faint crackling sound.
"Aha. Here it is!" he cried. "Now, then--" he pulled a small square of newspaper out of his pocket and held it out to the Prime Minster-- "see what you make of that." He rocked back on his heels, a satisfied look on his face.
The Prime Minister gingerly took the piece of newspaper from him. It was covered with tiny writing and a picture he couldn't quite make out except to see it appeared to be some sort of group photo. It looked like it was...moving.
"Hang on--it's awfully small," he commented, fishing in his own pocket for his reading glasses.
"Oh! Of course, of course--how silly of me," exclaimed Fudge. He tapped the square with his wand and it expanded to its normal size. It proved to be the entire front page of that day's Daily Prophet. The Prime Minister began silently reading it. His eyes grew wide and his face paled a bit, but by and large he thought he controlled himself admirably. All things considered.
"Good lord," he breathed. "The Dementor's Kiss. What--erm--what is that, exactly?"
"Ah," Fudge replied. "You remember when I explained Dementors to you a couple of years ago?" The Prime Minister nodded. "Well, the Dementor's Kiss is when a Dementor steals a person's soul." He nodded firmly as if that should make everything clear.
"Their soul?" repeated the Prime Minister. "Do they--do they die, then?"
"Heavens, no!" Fudge looked shocked. "We're not murderers. No, the Dementor's Kiss merely renders one incapable of feeling, of thinking--of having any ideas of their own. Makes 'em remarkably easy to control, really." He gestured at the paper with a chuckle. "That lot won't be causing any more trouble, I do assure you." He was the picture of satisfaction.
The Prime Minister was having some difficulty tearing his eyes away from the horrible scene pictured in the paper. "So...they just become vegetables, then?" he asked, trying to understand.
"Vegetables? Ha ha. You will have your little joke, sir. No, we don't perform any transfigurations on them--just the Dementor's Kiss. They are really quite docile afterward. Just sit in their cells and grow old and die." He seemed positively jovial at the prospect.
"Death Eaters. So these are the people responsible for all the murders and kidnappings we've been seeing recently, eh?" pressed the Prime Minister. Fudge hesitated.
"Well--well, no, not exactly," he said. "But they are Death Eaters."
"Just not the ones running round committing mayhem and murder in both our worlds?"
Fudge began to fidget nervously. "Well, mostly these are the--the more elderly among You-Know-Who's followers," he admitted.
"So there are others?"
"Oh, good heavens yes!" Realizing he may have sounded a bit too enthusiastic, Fudge quickly backpedaled. "That is--well--yes. Quite a few others, actually. The ones in the picture here--" he peered at it nearsightedly-- "are more or less...retired, I suppose you'd say." He looked defiantly at the Prime Minister. "But they're all out of the way now, every one of them."
The Prime Minister handed him back the newspaper. "But that doesn't really solve the problem, does it?" he said, beginning to feel depressed once again.
Fudge folded the paper and stowed it back among the folds of his robe. He grimaced. "No, I suppose not," he agreed glumly. "I just wanted to share the good news with you." He colored and wouldn't look the Prime Minister in the eye. "Not all that good, really, I suppose. Well, I'll just be off. No need to disturb you any further." He stepped toward the fireplace.
The Prime Minister, a little sorry to have deflated Fudge so thoroughly but still rather exasperated with him, said, "Well--still, it's something, isn't it?"
Fudge turned. "Well, I rather thought so," he said stiffly. "Still," he added politely, "I do quite see your point. It's just that I sometimes find I need to take encouragement wherever I can find it." He pulled a small pouch out of his capacious robes and took out a small pinch of the powder it contained. The Prime Minister watched interestedly. This part never failed to impress him.
Fudge gave a little wave, then turned toward the fireplace. He cried, "Ministry of Magic!" and threw the powder into the fireplace. Immediately the green flames swirled up. As the Prime Minister held his breath, Fudge stepped unhesitatingly into the flames, spinning like a top. In seconds he was gone.
The Prime Minister watched as the flames died down. He rather thought that might be fun to try sometime. Perhaps the next time Fudge came to call-- But reality asserted itself, and he pushed the thought away. Every time Fudge came to see him it meant trouble. He really wasn't all that eager to see the strange little man again...but he certainly had some neat tricks up his sleeve, Fudge did.
The little old man in the painting was snoring comfortably in his chair once again. The Prime Minister decided he'd had enough work for one evening. He tidied his desk and pushed his chair in neatly. Walking to the door, he removed his jacket from the coat tree just beside it and slung it over one shoulder. As he turned out the lights, he wondered how soon Fudge would find it necessary to return. He was afraid it would be all too soon.