Mass breakout of Death Eaters!
Mass deaths of Azkaban prisoners!
These were two entirely separate events—any wizard who could earn an "A" in Defense Against the Dark Arts at Hogwarts should be able to tell the difference. The prisoners had died due to the Dementors, not the Death Eaters.
But such rationality was a pipe dream.
For nearly thirty years, the quality of Hogwarts' Defense Against the Dark Arts classes had fluctuated wildly, and an "A" was a grade many wizards could only dream of achieving.
Rita Skeeter was truly changing. She tried to be objective. In her article, she went so far as to explain that the prisoners' deaths were due to Dementors, condemning the Ministry of Magic for its negligence in overseeing Azkaban. Prisoners or not, they were still human wizards.
But not everyone had the patience to read every word of a lengthy article.
The phrase "Death Eaters" alone was enough to incite fear. The word "death" appearing repeatedly only worsened the paranoia.
In the span of a single morning, wizards felt as if they had been thrown back sixteen years in time.
They remembered the Daily Prophet's past reports—
Dumbledore and Potter were liars, deceiving the Ministry of Magic with false claims of "the Dark Lord's return" to spread fear and strengthen their own influence over the wizarding world.
As the newspaper repeated these accusations, reinforcing the notion that "Dumbledore and Potter are frauds," it also unintentionally burned the actual rumors into the minds of its readers.
Now, public opinion was rebounding with overwhelming force.
The Ministry of Magic became a dumping ground for Howlers, with Cornelius Fudge's office at the very center of the storm.
At 9 a.m., when Rufus Scrimgeour arrived for work, two owls were perched on his head, and a flock of Howlers was chasing him, mouths wide open. He looked utterly disheveled, but he didn't immediately get rid of them with a flick of his wand. Instead, he let them be.
He strode up to Fudge's office and turned the doorknob.
"My dear Cornelius," Scrimgeour said with a flourish, exuding confidence—even as an owl's tail feather drifted down and stuck to his lips. "This is truly terrible news. Have you read The Quibbler?"
"Can you imagine—the Ministry of Magic only learning of its own failures from a magazine?"
Fudge's face turned red. "You know what kind of magazine The Quibbler is!"
"And you know what kind of woman Rita Skeeter is!"
"Erratic, unprincipled, a pathological liar—"
Scrimgeour interrupted him. "Cornelius, Skeeter's lies hardly outnumber yours."
"Rufus!" Fudge growled through clenched teeth.
"I've already sent people to investigate Azkaban. We'll have results by noon at the latest," Scrimgeour continued breezily. "In the meantime, let's prepare for an emergency meeting. Whether or not the article is true, we need to save the Ministry."
He flicked his wand.
The Howlers behind him burst free, their temporary bindings unraveling. Each one gaped open, spewing curses and insults.
"Cornelius Fudge, you cockroach-brained fool! Is our safety—"
"I'd trust a trained dog more than you to run the Ministry!"
"The 'New Era of the Ministry'? Ha! A brilliant new age indeed—no other Minister in history has let Azkaban breakouts happen twice in two years!"
The last insult hit especially hard.
"The New Era of the Ministry" had been Fudge's triumphant slogan when he released Sirius Black—winning him at least five points in approval ratings.
Now, thanks to that very phrase, he had lost at least ten.
The roar of Howlers filled the room.
Fudge raised his wand and waved it gently, summoning a burst of flames.
Scrimgeour countered with a charm. "My dear Minister, these are the voices of your most beloved constituents—why not listen to them properly?"
"Rufus, don't push it," Fudge hissed.
Scrimgeour sneered. "Minister, your actions are far more excessive than my words."
"Noon. Wizengamot. Be there."
He straightened his tie, smoothed his ruffled hair, and strode out.
The Wizengamot was a peculiar institution. It held significant power within the Ministry's hierarchy but rarely had pressing matters to address.
This year was an exception.
In just three months, the Wizengamot had convened twice—
Once because of Cornelius Fudge, to hold a trial for Harry Potter.
And now, again, because of Cornelius Fudge.
At noon, Dumbledore sat in the chair that had once belonged to Fudge. His expression was complicated as he gazed at his former "friend," whose appearance had not changed, yet whose demeanor had transformed completely over the past decade.
As Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot, Dumbledore did not speak.
Nor did anyone ask him to.
A senior witch took a deep breath and began the proceedings.
"To summarize, the current heads of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, the Wizengamot Council, the Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes, and the Department of Magical Transportation—a total of five departments—have filed for the impeachment of Minister Cornelius Fudge."
"Minister Fudge, do you have anything to say?"
The elderly witch sighed, catching her breath. At her age, delivering such a long speech in one go was quite a challenge.
She turned to Dumbledore and muttered, "Albus, I suspect you simply find talking too exhausting."
Dumbledore chuckled and shook his head, saying nothing.
"Did those prisoners really escape?" Fudge clenched his fists, his thick, stubby arms planted firmly on the table.
Scrimgeour replied, "Of course. The Aurors who investigated have returned."
"Not only did the Death Eaters escape, but the Dementors broke their contract, using the prisoners as food. Even our prison guards on the island were killed—by the Killing Curse. They've been dead for at least a month."
At least a month.
Dumbledore adjusted his glasses and leaned forward slightly.
Fudge looked as though he had swallowed a pound of Umbridge's toad-like essence. His jowls sagged, his expression utterly crestfallen.
"It seems Minister Fudge has no rebuttal?" Scrimgeour slowly raised his hand. "I propose we vote—"
Fudge slammed the table. "Wait!"
He shot to his feet, dragging his chair across the floor with a sharp, grating noise. "The Ministry cannot function without me!"
"I can fix this mess!"
Scrimgeour tilted his head. "The only problem you've ever 'fixed' was Sirius Black. But, my dear Minister Fudge, we all know that wasn't your doing."
"Without Mr. Potter's planning, you would have done nothing—just like before. Black would still be falsely accused and hiding like a fugitive. And you—"
"You would simply say, 'Perhaps we could have done something before, but now it's too late,' and let time bury the truth once again."
"You have no credibility."
"Cornelius Fudge!"
Scrimgeour swept his hand forward. "Let's vote. Those in favor of impeaching Cornelius Fudge and appointing a capable, competent, and visionary new Minister—raise your hands."
Half the room raised their hands.
The motion passed.
Umbridge stiffened but dutifully recorded the proceedings.
Scrimgeour smirked.
Perfect.
He loved The Quibbler. That article had been the final straw that broke Fudge completely.
Fudge sat rigidly, silent and unmoving.
Scrimgeour cast him a disdainful glance, then turned to Dumbledore and clapped his hands together. "Excellent. It seems we all agree that this incompetent fool must go. Now, let's elect a new Minister."
The elderly witch nodded. "Nomination by ballot."
With a wave of her wand, a blackboard appeared.
"I nominate Amelia Bones, Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement."
"I nominate Rufus Scrimgeour, Head of the Auror Office."
"I nominate Pius Thicknesse, Deputy Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement."
One hour later.
Scrimgeour stared at the board, stunned.
How could this be—?
The final tally:
Amelia Bones - 11 votes
Rufus Scrimgeour - 39 votes
Pius Thicknesse - 56 votes
"Dumbledore abstained."
"The Wizengamot and the Ministry have voted. Cornelius Fudge is impeached. Pius Thicknesse is the new Minister of Magic."
Applause erupted.
A tall, thin man with a goatee stood up and bowed politely to each member.
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Powerstones?
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