The decor of the Minister's Office does not suit the mood of the man himself. Elegant, dark blue leather chairs and walls the shade of coral indicate a calm atmosphere. A place where one could meet the leader of the wizarding world for a nice cup of tea while carrying on discussions of political importance under the watchful eyes of the portraits of his predecessors. The lazy flight of paper birds with their reminders of meeting times and dates written in ink across their bodies draws Kingsley's glance to the ceiling. If it wasn't for the agitated state of the Minister himself, the slow flight patterns would be enough to lull any wizard into a daze just by watching them.
"That's impossible! That's completely impossible!" Cornelius Fudge repeats for the third time in a row. His bowler hat hangs crookedly on his head as he paces behind his desk, "Bartemius Crouch Jr. is dead!"
"I assure you that it is more than possible, Mr. Minister." Scrimgeour states, his hands tightly clasped behind his back. The internal annoyance that he must feel carefully kept out of his insistent tone. "My men have already investigated the scene thoroughly and that is the only conclusion that we can draw from our findings."
One of said aurors stands behind Scrimgeour, and Kingsley can't help but be relieved that Moody is not standing here with him. Alastor wouldn't have anywhere close to the same level of patience in dealing with the Minister's shock as Scrimgeour or Kingsley. It would have taken only minutes for the old auror to have snapped at Cornelius Fudge to pull himself together.
It's for the best, really, that Mad-Eye Moody stalks the streets of Diagon and Knockturn Alley with the rest of the auror patrols waiting for the Death Eater to surface.
"Our curse-breakers have verified that the Crouch wards were unbroken and unaltered. Unless the perpetrator had magic that we are unaware of, it stands to reason that the murder of Crouch was committed by someone already recognized by the house's magic itself and that a member from the family was left alive so that the wards failed to collapse upon Mr. Crouch's death." Scrimgeour continues relentlessly as Fudge's pacing quickens.
"To ensure that there is no room for doubt, I have already submitted a request to the Department of Ministries to have one of their Unspeakables examine the supposed corpse of the boy buried in Azkaban–"
"What!" Fudge whirls to face them, his features contorted in confused indignation, "but that's–"
"My job as the Head of the Auror Office permits me to seek any assistance that is required from the other departments in catching dark wizards, Mr. Minister." Scrimgeour's patience snaps in a statement of fact. "Especially when my superior who would ordinarily oversee a formalized request is otherwise unavailable during the event of an emergency."
Fudge pales, his eyes darting between the two aurors while somehow managing enough self-control to avoid looking at the fourth occupant of the room. When the panicked calls for help had first flooded the Ministry late last night and nearly the entire force had been deployed to Upper Flagley, the Minister was nowhere to be found during those few critical hours.
Not sleeping with his wife and child at home, not working late in his office, not even drinking at the local pub. That in itself had caused a clamor of panic that hadn't settled until the man reappeared back at the Ministry, flustered and evasive as to his whereabouts.
"Hem, hem," coughs the fourth occupant of the room, the very same one who also reappeared at the same time as the Minister, "The Minister was unavailable because he was discussing a set of very important, sensitive matters with a political acquaintance," Dolores Umbridge says in prim and steady voice from her place sitting in one of those elegant blue chairs.
Kingsley contains the snort that wants to erupt at that comment. To give the woman credit, her composure is impeccable compared to Fudge. Despite her rather toadish face, her expression is one of complete innocence. Paired with the homely pink cardigan and the girlish black velvet bow on top of her head, Kingsley could almost believe that Cornelius Fudge was spending the night discussing political matters.
Almost.
"Yes, Dolores, thank you," Fudge states, still not looking her way but too flustered to add anything else.
"Certainly Cornelius," she smiles as she continues, "and since the Minister is here now, we should focus upon the matters at hand."
Fudge's head bobs in agreement even though he was spinning in circles only moments ago. Kingsley holds in a sigh, and from the way that Scrimgeour stands rigidly straight, he can guess that his superior is holding in a lot more than that. But now is not the time to deal with the Minister's… private matters.
"The first of which is this horrible situation we find ourselves in, this terrible betrayal," Umbridge says, her voice rising just a note higher. "To think that Mr. Crouch would have been hiding a criminal in his very own home all this time. Why, Cornelius, this shows precisely how catastrophic it would have been if he had tricked the populace into electing him Minister of Magic instead of your more trustworthy self."
The tone carrying those words belong to a woman rightfully horrified by the events that have occurred. Those words though…It's not exactly a secret among the higher ups at the Ministry about Fudge's style of governance. A letter asking Dumbledore for advice every other week, a meeting behind closed doors where Lucius Malfoy donates more than a few galleons for this charity or that.
There's always the undercurrent of understanding that Cornelius Fudge runs very little of the Ministry himself. Most functions operate under the respective heads of the various departments while the rest play out just like this with the Minister's ear aimed at whoever shows themself smarter than him.
"Exactly, Doloras, exactly!" At that, Fudge finally looks to Umbridge before turning his attention back to the two aurors in his office. "We must keep the people safe from this most grievous mistake!" Unsaid is the Minister's newfound confidence that springs from this not being his mistake. It's now a mess caused by his political rival, the final nail in the literal coffin of one of the few men that could have eventually competed with Fudge and replaced him in the Minister's seat.
"I want every man on this case, do you hear?!" the Minister orders like every auror and trainee isn't already scrambling to find Barty Crouch, "And the papers, yes the papers! I want every front page from Witch Weekly to the Daily Prophet warning the people about this horrifying betrayal!"
Kingsley resists pointing out that the papers are already doing that. Even the Quibbler's front page sports a headline about the Death Eater. Although, if Kingsley's cursorily read through was correct, its editor is claiming that this is a younger Barty Crouch Jr. from the past who somehow slipped through time to wreak havoc on the present. Which…if that were the case, frankly a younger Barty Crouch would be scrambling to go back to his time to warn He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named from attacking the Potters in the first place.
The horror of such a scenario is ruthlessly shoved behind occlumency shields where it won't break out in beads of sweat on Kingsley's forehead.
"We should also offer a reward for any information on who may have helped Mr. Crouch." All eyes turn to Umbridge as she inserts herself into the Minister's declarations. "Even as resourceful as the late Crouch was, I doubt that he alone would have been able to fake his son's imprisonment in Azkaban."
The office is deathly silent as Umbridge continues, "Certainly, it's likely that he had co-conspirators. People who helped falsify his son's presence in prison. Or, if the boy was ever taken there, people who could have smuggled him out to his father's care."
Cornelius Fudge sinks into his tall leather chair as the lazy flight of birds fly around all their heads.
"Oh sweet Merlin's beard," the Minister moans as Scrimgeour finally cuts in.
"We need to get to work, Minister. As our Senior Undersecretary has helped illuminate, I need to inform my men to expand their investigations beyond the obvious suspects who could be assisting Crouch Jr. in evading custody."
Without waiting for a single response from the Minster, who looks as ghastly as an inferi, Scrimgeour turns and storms past Kingsley who is quick to follow. They pass through the corridors, boots clicking against the black marble floor as Kingsley waits for Scrimgeour to speak. The man's busy thinking apparently, no doubt turning over what he knows of the late Crouch's social network and who among them would be so foolish as to smuggle a Death Eater out of Azkaban.
The thing is though, there were always doubts about that trial, where the Lestranges were finally, finally locked away and their accomplice tossed in prison right along with them. With men like Lucius Malfoy claiming to be under the imperius curse, there were some who wondered if the same couldn't be said for the young Barty Crouch. It didn't make sense for the son of such an opponent against the dark arts to have joined the ranks of a dark lord.
And the trial itself…Kingsley wasn't there, stuck in St. Mungo's as he was from getting clipped by a dark curse the week before; however, his coworkers had talked enough about it for him to get the gist of what had occurred.
The boy had begged innocence, screamed it to the whole of the Wizengamot as his father sentenced him to Azkaban. And maybe someone in that crowd had believed him, someone who could have been convinced to assist Mr. Crouch in sneaking his son away.
And what does that say about Mr. Crouch, a man willing to put on such a spectacle in imprisoning his own child yet hiding him away so soon after?
In terse silence, the aurors reach the end of the corridor and the set of lifts designed to carry them to the upper levels of the Ministry. It's only after the golden grille closes, leaving no chance of anyone else overhearing his words that Scrimgeour speaks.
"Go meet with Moody. Inform him of the latest developments that our fruitful meeting with the Minister has brought to light. Apparently, we all need to practice Mad-Eye's level of paranoia if we are to hope to solve this case." The yellow-tinged eyes of Scrimgeour flash with irritation.
"Yes sir," Kingsley says, the lift's chains rattling as they ascend.