Chapter – 3 The Initial Strike
The meeting with Amelia Bones had left Harry with a growing sense of dread. After she had left, Professor Dumbledore had shown Harry his now 'defunct' wand. The rhythmic pounding in his chest grew fainter and fainter as his wand stubbornly refused to respond to any of his spell attempts. Not even a simple Lumos. Honestly, had he expected anything different? Every glimmer of happiness seemed to be systematically snatched away from him.
This time, it was his wand. What would be next, Hedwig? And then what? Maybe—
"Potter?"
McGonagall's voice jolted Harry back to reality. It took him a moment to realize that he was standing in the middle of an empty corridor. He had been so consumed by shock that he hadn't even noticed himself starting to walk. Honestly, he hadn't even realized when his Head of House had approached him.
Frustration mounting, he replied, "Yes, Professor McGonagall?"
"Are you all right?" she inquired, her expression softer than Harry had ever seen on her typically stern face.
"I'm... fine," he curtly replied. What was he supposed to say? Hey, my wand's dead. Can we get another one?
She nodded. "I see. It's that dire, then."
Harry felt his patience wearing thin. Why couldn't she understand? What part of 'I'm fine' didn't imply that everything was fine? Besides, what business was it of McGonagall's anyway? She had been perfectly fine when Malfoy and his gang, along with half of Hogwarts, had made his life a living hell earlier in the year. Without Gryffindor's support, he would have been ostracized and treated like a pariah.
"Potter, I comprehend that you must be feeling troubled by this situation. However—"
"I said I'm fine!" Harry snapped, his frustration finally bubbling over. "Why do you keep dwelling on the same topic?"
McGonagall raised an eyebrow. "I can discern the gears turning in your mind, Potter. I've been in this profession for over four decades, and I recognize a transition when I see one."
"What do you mean?" Harry countered.
McGonagall raised her right hand and began ticking off her fingers. "You had a near-death experience a week ago. You spent most of the week in the hospital wing, suffering from a severe case of magical overload. Shortly after waking up, the Ministry, in its infinite wisdom, subjected you to an exhaustive interrogation that may have rekindled old wounds. And now, you've discovered that your wand is unresponsive and may be dead. Am I forgetting anything?"
"Yes," Harry retorted, unknowingly seeking the most childish insult to throw at her. "I didn't have a near-death experience, Professor. That bloke hit me with a killing curse."
Professor McGonagall opened her mouth—
"No, I don't have matching scars now. I checked."
—And then promptly closed it.
Harry deflated like a punctured balloon. "Sorry about that, Professor. It's just... they think I murdered Cedric Diggory, that sonofa—"
McGonagall cleared her throat.
"—Pureblood House that attacked me from behind," Harry awkwardly finished. "And now, my wand is dead, and Professor Dumbledore is probably having my belongings packed to send me back to my awful relatives."
She cleared her throat again.
"Look, we can't have a proper conversation if you keep taking offense to every word that comes out of my mouth, all right?" He glared at her, as if trying to make a point.
The older woman arched a single eyebrow.
Harry's frustration got the better of him. "Does that mean you won't blame me if I hex Snape?"
Harry blinked. His mouth had gone off again without consulting the rest of him first. "Er... I said that aloud, didn't I?"
"You did," she replied with a deadpan expression. Then her demeanor softened. "And speaking to you now feels like looking into an old mirror."
"What do you mean?"
A faint smile graced her lips. "As you are at this moment, Mr. Potter, you remind me a great deal of James Potter. The same casual arrogance. The cheeky tone. The habit of letting his mouth run off before his mind..."
Harry couldn't help himself. He chuckled.
McGonagall arched another eyebrow.
"Sorry," he chuckled again. "This is the first time someone other than Snape has compared me to my father."
McGonagall pursed her lips. "Albus informed me that you've been experiencing emotional upheavals, but seeing it in person is more than a little unsettling." She paused for a moment. "I've always thought you resemble your mother more than your father. Lily was just like you, inquisitive about the oddest things, always wearing her heart on her sleeve, despite Severus's numerous attempts to correct—"
"What?"
"I beg your pardon?"
"I could've sworn you said something really outrageous there, Professor. Are you saying Snape knew my mother?"
"Professor Snape and your mother were actually very good friends, at least until they drifted apart during their sixth year at Hogwarts. I don't have all the details, but it was a significant event in both their lives. Afterward, Snape joined the Death Eaters, while your parents went on to join the Order of the Phoenix."
Harry was taken aback by this revelation. He had always known that Snape didn't like his father, but the idea that Snape had been friends with his mother was difficult to reconcile with the man he knew.
"Why did they stop being friends?" Harry asked.
"That, Mr. Potter, is a question only they could have answered," McGonagall replied. "But I suspect it had to do with the choices they made as young adults. Your mother was committed to fighting against Voldemort and his followers, while Snape chose a different path. It likely created a rift between them that couldn't be repaired."
Harry absorbed this information, his mind racing with thoughts about his parents' past. He had so many questions, but he wasn't sure if he wanted to delve deeper into this particular part of his family history at the moment.
"Thank you for telling me, Professor," Harry said, still processing the revelation. "I never knew any of this before."
McGonagall gave him a sympathetic smile. "It's a part of your parents' history that isn't widely known. Some things are best left in the past, but it's important to understand where you come from. Just remember, Mr. Potter, that you have the power to choose your own path, regardless of your family's history."
Harry nodded, grateful for her words of wisdom. It was a lot to take in, but he knew that he had to focus on the challenges ahead, including the upcoming trial.
"Thank you, Professor," he said again, this time with a genuine smile. "I appreciate your advice."
McGonagall patted him on the shoulder. "You're welcome, Mr. Potter. Now, I believe you have some unfinished business with your headmaster. I'll leave you to it."
As Harry watched her walk away, he couldn't help but reflect on the newfound knowledge about his parents' past.
Harry was utterly stunned. His mother had been friends with Snape? The unpleasant Potions Master who resided in the dungeons? The one who deducted house points for the slightest offenses and seemed to have a personal vendetta against Gryffindors? That Snape? It was too hard to believe.
"Why does he hate me so much then?"
Oops, there he went again, speaking without thinking. Harry was becoming increasingly aware that this was going to be a problem.
"Professor Snape... is a complex individual. His reasons are his own and not mine to disclose," the veteran Transfiguration professor responded. "What I can tell you is not to lose hope. I'm sure Professor Dumbledore will arrange for you to obtain a replacement wand as soon as possible."
"So it can't be repaired, huh?" Harry muttered, feeling dejected. "I had hoped—"
McGonagall gave his shoulder a reassuring squeeze. Losing a wand was a common experience for most witches and wizards. If he recalled correctly, his friend Ron had gone through something similar in their second year.
"His wand was old," Harry stubbornly retorted. "Ron's wand was a hand-me-down. Mine, the holly-and-phoenix wand, was special. It chose me. Ollivander said so."
They were—
"Different," Harry mumbled. "It's not the same. My wand was unique."
"How so?"
"Ollivander told me that the phoenix whose feather is in my wand gave only one other feather."
"And who received the other one?"
"Lord Voldemort."
McGonagall flinched.
Harry tactfully avoided her gaze. "Professor Dumbledore told me it's one of the connections between myself and... him. He said that on the night Voldemort attacked me, he transferred some of his powers to me. My wand connection, my ability to speak Parseltongue—"
"That is absolute nonsense, Potter," McGonagall asserted, surprising him. "I'm no expert, but Parseltongue is a well-known trait in the Gaunt family, passed down through blood, not some... curse-scar."
Harry recalled hearing something similar from Madam Bones.
"Professor, what's a lineage test?"
"An exceedingly overpriced item for sale at Gringotts," she said with a frown. "It's designed to entice inexperienced Muggle-borns into spending all their money in hopes of discovering wealth and lineage."
That explanation shut him up.
"Where did you hear about it, Potter?"
"Um, Madam Bones mentioned it."
"Did she?" the Scottish professor muttered. "It does make sense. It's entirely possible that Lily had a Gaunt squib somewhere in her family tree."
So, Harry might be related to Volde—she winced—Voldemort?
"Many pureblood families are connected in some way," she continued. "You should consider examining the Potter family tapestry at some point. The goblins should grant you access to it."
Great, now he needed to figure out what a family tapestry was. The rest would follow.
"Do you think Professor Dumbledore would allow that?" Harry asked, his mind whirring with thoughts as the Transfiguration professor left the room.
Office of the Minister of Magic.
Tap! Tap! Tap!
Cornelius Fudge was having an absolutely dreadful week.
It had all begun on the night of the Third Task of the Triwizard Tournament. Looking back, the fact that Ludo Bagman had actually won a bet should have been a dire omen, signaling that something was terribly amiss. Ludo had the worst luck with betting; in fact, if there were such a thing as a magical "Sucker" trait, Ludo Bagman would be its embodiment.
Seeing Bagman win not just one bet, but walk away with a sizeable jackpot of six hundred galleons and a rare bottle of Ogden's 1863 Grand Cru Firewhiskey should have been enough to indicate that the world was coming to an end. Clearly, the divination nerds had dropped the ball.
And now, his entire world was in turmoil.
Tap! Tap! Tap!
Twelve purebloods were discovered dead, among them five Wizengamot members and three Lords of Ancient Houses. The remaining four held significant bureaucratic positions within the Ministry. The last victim was a Hogwarts student, and to make matters worse, the Triwizard Champion.
All of them were found clad in Death Eater attire, their bodies decaying due to an inexplicable magical occurrence related to one Harry James Potter. The Boy-Who-Lived.
Most importantly, every single one of them belonged to his own, not-so-humble voting bloc. Families were demanding vengeance. The Noble and Most Ancient House of Selwyn had lost its Lord and was now embroiled in endless disputes regarding the future of their Lordship. The Ancient House of Nott faced an equally precarious situation. There was also the matter of why these individuals had been present in Death Eater robes, but Lucius had assured him that there must have been a perfectly reasonable explanation for that anomaly.
Furthermore, the Ministry had only Dumbledore's word that the bodies were found in such a state. For all Cornelius knew, the crafty old man might have orchestrated the entire affair.
And that wasn't even accounting for the outrageous rumors circulating. Voldemort back from the dead? By Merlin's saggy underpants, such claims proved that Dumbledore had lost his marbles.
People died when they were killed, and once dead, they did not return to life.
No, this whole debacle reeked of Dumbledore's involvement. Cornelius was certain of it. Absolutely certain.
His fingers drummed against the tabletop, an indication of his increasing anxiety. Despite years of practice and therapy, this one habit seemed to be beyond his control. Uncontrollable.
Tap! Tap! Tap!
The next election was still a year away, but suffering a loss like this now? No, it was a deliberate attack. Dumbledore... Dumbledore was targeting his voting bloc. It didn't matter what the old man said. He— Cornelius still had Lucius, at least. If he were to somehow be implicated...
Cornelius shook his head vigorously, banishing the perilous thought before it could fully form.
He glanced at his watch.
Why hadn't Percy returned yet?
He had received a message from Amelia Bones, informing him that she would be taking over Harry Potter's interrogation. While the woman was unyielding to a fault, she lacked the... flexibility that Cornelius preferred in his subordinates. That's why he had dispatched young Percy Weasley to accompany her and gather information.
And it appeared his instinct had been spot on.
Percy Weasley had been positively livid as he recounted how Dumbledore had essentially strong-armed him into conducting the interrogation according to the headmaster's wishes. Every time Percy had attempted to steer the investigation towards the actual matter at hand, Dumbledore had forcefully redirected the conversation elsewhere.
Something was amiss, and Dumbledore was attempting to conceal it from the Ministry.
To conceal it from him.
That alone spoke volumes about the old man's concealed ambitions. Could it be that Albus Dumbledore had no intention of becoming the Minister of Magic?
No, his objective was far more sinister.
With himself firmly seated within Hogwarts and the famous Boy-Who-Lived under his thumb, Dumbledore relished the power he held over the future of British wizarding society. Even with this ruse regarding the Dark Lord's return, Dumbledore would emerge as the one individual that Wizarding Britain would turn to during these trying times. At that point, it wouldn't matter if he officially assumed the role of Minister or not. The Ministry, his beloved Ministry, would become nothing more than a puppet at the hands of the old man.
If his hunch was correct, this was merely the opening move.
Eliminating Cornelius's supporters through enigmatic magic would be the initial step, one that would likely pose no difficulty for the experienced headmaster. Cornelius openly acknowledged that the elderly headmaster had probably forgotten more spells than most people had the chance to learn in their lifetimes.
And now, in less than three days, before he could even react to Dumbledore's previous maneuver, the cunning Headmaster had already positioned his next pawn onto the board.
Sirius Black's trial.
Cornelius was many things, but a fool was not one of them.
He had harbored suspicions of foul play when the Potter boy and his friends had insisted that Black was innocent. Their disjointed ramblings about how the man had never received a trial had only served to diminish the credibility of their account. After all, Cornelius had thoroughly reviewed the records of Black's trial, and it was meticulously documented. Sirius Black had indeed been subjected to a court trial presided over by Barty Crouch and, under the effects of veritaserum, had confessed to Peter Pettigrew's murder.
There should have been no room for doubt.
Even Dumbledore would not be able to save someone who was undeniably guilty.
And yet, he had done just that.
Somehow, Dumbledore had managed to resurrect a body from the grave, proving to the world that Peter Pettigrew was alive. At least, until he was struck down along with the others in the graveyard by some act of magic.
Cornelius would have given the man a standing ovation for the flawless execution of the entire scheme if it were not contributing to his own downfall.
There was still the matter of the thirteen Muggles that Black had purportedly killed, but given that his main reason for incarceration was Pettigrew's death, the credibility of the rest of the case's evidence was now in question in light of recent revelations. Therefore, he had been compelled to grant the man another opportunity to prove his innocence.
And Cornelius was perfectly fine with that.
After all, Sirius Black was a pureblood, a scion of a Noble and Most Ancient House.
No, his issue was entirely different. Cornelius might not have collected enough NEWTs during his time at Hogwarts to become a solicitor, but one did not rise to the position of Minister of Magic without acquiring some legal knowledge along the way.
Maintaining his role as Minister required him to navigate a delicate balance among the members of the Wizengamot. And over the years, Cornelius had accumulated a vast amount of information about the skeletons hidden in their closets.
It was a bit of a hobby, really.
Some people collected stamps, while others collected chocolate frog cards. Cornelius Fudge collected secrets.
And one of those dirty little secrets involved the House of Black.
Sirius Black had upheld the family's pureblood heritage.
He possessed the Family Magic.
This meant that it didn't matter if the man had disowned his house. It didn't matter that Narcissa Malfoy's son was set to inherit it. In fact, none of Lucius's political maneuvering over the past decade, slowly gaining control of the Black family fortune, mattered at all.
With the one true and remaining heir about to be released, Sirius would become the next Lord of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black.
At the next Wizengamot session.
Malfoy's grip on the Black name and fortune would crumble, as would the alliances forged using the Black name. It was no secret that most of Lucius's contributions to Cornelius's account — his election fund — came from the Black coffers. If the House of Black shifted its allegiance, Cornelius's power base within the Ministry of Magic would collapse.
And it would all begin with Sirius Black's trial.
Tap! Tap! Ta—
The door slid open, and Percy Weasley entered.
"Ah, Weatherby."
Despite the gravity of his situation, Cornelius perked up slightly at the subtle twitch on the young man's forehead. For a strapping lad from a family of social individuals, Percy seemed to have a rather large stick lodged firmly up his stoic backside, if Cornelius had to say so himself. While Arthur Weasley and his pro-Muggleborn stance was often an annoyance, Cornelius couldn't bring himself to harbor any real disdain for such a polite and agreeable fellow.
Compared to him, Percy stood out like a sore thumb. He had graduated from Hogwarts as a Gryffindor Prefect and later became Head Boy, all while achieving excellent NEWT scores. He then joined the Ministry under Barty Crouch in the Department of International Cooperation.
Bah! Cornelius scoffed. As if Barty Crouch's perpetually constipated expression could ever contribute to anything related to cooperation. Percy's excessive enthusiasm in carrying out Barty's every whim had earned him no favors.
Cornelius had subsequently approached the young man, offering him the position of Junior Undersecretary for a hidden purpose — to spy on the Weasleys, a family known for their strong connections to Dumbledore. So, naturally, he had been more than annoyed when Percy had strolled in through the front door, haughtily declaring that he had severed all ties with his family.
Cornelius's eyes hadn't stopped twitching that day.
And thus, he found himself saddled with an additional attendant — Percy Weatherby. After all, if the boy was willing to renounce his own name, then he should be prepared to face the consequences of such a decision.
"The woman you summoned has arrived, sir."
"Has she indeed? Well, stop dawdling and bring her in, Weatherby."
And there was that amusing little twitch once more.
"Is it true that Madam Higgins is retiring, sir? And that this... woman will assume her position?"
"Ah, you've heard about that, have you Weatherby?"
"It's Weasley, sir."
"Oh, my apologies. How embarrassing!" Cornelius drummed his fingers on the table, staring at Percy and waiting for him to exit the room.
But his new assistant simply stood there, seemingly oblivious to the hint.
"Do you have something else to add?"
"Sir," Percy intoned, possibly with as much condescension as he could muster. "I must question the decision to appoint an unknown woman to such a significant position."
"Unknown?" Cornelius raised an eyebrow. "Why do you say that?"
"Well, sir, she's a librarian."
Cornelius couldn't resist shooting the young man a sardonic look. True, he was appointing what was essentially a librarian to a high-ranking position in the Ministry, but the woman in question possessed certain... qualities that made her an intriguing candidate for what he had in mind. Everything else was superficial and irrelevant.
"And?"
"It's quite a leap, sir," Percy began. "I suggest starting her as my apprentice, and then, once I've been promoted, you can place her as Junior Undersecretary. But to begin as Senior Undersecretary—"
"Senior Undersecretary," Cornelius corrected. "She's a capable woman, and you'll learn a great deal from her."
Cornelius paused, casting the lad a gleaming smile as he savored the look of horror on Percy's face.
"But— but sir!"
"My mind is made up, Weatherby. It will be a valuable experience for you. Now, please fetch her, and clear my schedule for the remainder of the day. I have work to attend to."
"...Yes, sir," came the defeated reply as Percy headed towards the door.
As the young man departed, Cornelius couldn't resist delivering a parting shot. "You've done well today. Close the door on your way out, Perky."
The way Percy's fingers twitched while closing the door behind him genuinely brightened Cornelius's day.
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