This was Scrimgeour's proudest achievement—he still had all his limbs!
"If you're aiming to lose a hand to gain more of Thicknesse's trust, I can help," Harry said softly, sitting beside him. "Don't worry, it won't hurt much—just one slice."
Scrimgeour quickly shook his head. "No, no, Harry! This is enough, more than enough."
He glanced at Harry's profile and breathed a little easier—seemed that was a joke. He continued, "Thicknesse isn't having a smooth time at the Ministry lately. Many of his recent orders haven't been well received—but he's the Minister, and newly appointed."
"Take his radical approach to Hogwarts, for example. They do want to tighten their grip on Dumbledore, but push too hard… well, they're also afraid of him. Cornered dog and all that?"
"As for me, clever Scrimgeour, standing firmly on his side, I've naturally become a trusted confidant."
"We grew closer, and that's when I began to uncover things."
Scrimgeour reached into the innermost pocket of his robe and carefully pulled out a photograph.
It showed a letter—mundane on the surface, just a regular work summary.
"The Minister of Magic, sending summaries of his work to someone else?" Scrimgeour flipped to the third photo. "And look—here are the envelopes from previous replies."
"All addressed to the same place: Malfoy Manor."
"This letter hasn't been sent yet, but there's no doubt it's headed there too."
He paused, then tucked the photos away. "I had no idea Thicknesse was so friendly with Mrs. Malfoy."
"There's only one explanation—"
"The Death Eaters, and their master, are at Malfoy Manor."
"And now even Thicknesse is one of them."
He was adamant, thumping his chest as he secured the photos.
Harry nodded. "Mr. Scrimgeour, you've done a remarkable job."
Scrimgeour blushed with modest pride.
"You discovered all this on your own," Harry said calmly. "You're absolutely right—Thicknesse is a Death Eater. Voldemort and his followers are indeed at Malfoy Manor."
Scrimgeour blinked, head jerking back in shock. He tilted his gaze downward to peer at Harry's face. "Harry, you already knew—"
Harry nodded.
"How long before I told you?" Scrimgeour asked, drawing a breath.
"If you mean when I learned Thicknesse is a Death Eater—New Year's Day," Harry answered. "But if you mean Voldemort staying at Malfoy Manor… I've known since shortly after he came back."
Scrimgeour grabbed his chest—half from frustration. He'd risked so much, endured so much, only to find out he was uncovering second-, third-, or even fourth-hand information. It was a complex mix of emotions.
After a pause, he frowned. "Harry, if you already know where they are, then why not just—"
"It's not time yet," Harry interrupted.
Not time? That caught Scrimgeour off guard. "Why?"
"Do you really want to know?" Harry asked.
Scrimgeour hesitated, then nodded. "I've heard of the Order of the Phoenix from Dumbledore. I can join."
He offered his wrist. "Should I get a mark or something?"
"That's Voldemort's way," Harry said, smiling faintly. "The Order doesn't need that. We choose only those we trust—and who are capable."
Scrimgeour withdrew his hand with a pleased expression. "Hearing that from you really means a lot."
Harry calmly explained about Horcruxes, about Barty Crouch Jr.'s confession—though he didn't mention himself being a Horcrux or anything related to Snape.
"Horcruxes? Seven?" Scrimgeour's eyes widened. "How could he even—"
As an Auror, he knew enough to grasp the horror of it.
Harry shrugged. "So the issue isn't can we beat Voldemort—but how to kill him permanently."
"Instead of rushing to destroy him, we're better off controlling him."
"At least we know where he is, what he's doing, and what he's made of."
"Once we've found and destroyed all the Horcruxes—then we end him."
It all made sense. No wonder Harry said it wasn't time.
"And what about Thicknesse?" Scrimgeour asked, tapping his knee. "We're just going to let him roam free?"
"I could arrest him—maybe find his Dark Mark—"
"No use. He doesn't have one," Harry said.
Scrimgeour froze.
"I'm serious. He doesn't have the Dark Mark. Voldemort still has enough brains not to leave such an obvious trace."
Scrimgeour frowned again.
"Keep an eye on the Ministry," Harry advised. "Thicknesse might make another move."
Scrimgeour nodded solemnly.
Harry stood. "If that's all—"
"Wait, Harry." Scrimgeour called him back.
Harry turned.
Scrimgeour hesitated. "About… Umbridge…"
"Don't ask about her." Harry cut him off. "We just had a rather pleasant conversation—let's not end it on something so unpleasant."
Scrimgeour fell silent, lifting his hand in farewell as Harry re-entered the Great Hall.
He sighed, looked up at the moon, and felt the breeze of a new era blowing.
Why hadn't he met someone like Harry in his youth—someone who could inspire others and lead them in the roaring current of change?
He sat there a long while before taking a long detour with the other Aurors back to the Ministry.
The Ministry's reaction was… odd.
The Daily Prophet didn't report the incident.
Inside the Ministry, barely anyone talked about it. Mr. Diggory was nervous for days—his son had led the charge. Worried about fallout, he constantly wandered over to the Department of International Magical Cooperation, pestering Percy for reassurance. Percy, one of the few diligent workers left, loathed this kind of "let's slouch together" attitude.
After enduring this all morning, Percy hung a robe on his office door with a sign: "Do Not Disturb," and buried himself in his work.
Mr. Diggory had no choice but to bother Mr. Weasley.
Arthur Weasley wasn't keen on him either. Arthur enjoyed slacking off—but in secret, alone. Visitors ruined that.
Still, none of Mr. Diggory's fears came true. Neither he nor the Weasleys suffered any backlash. On the contrary… they were favored?
The coffee machine Mr. Diggory had been nagging about was replaced at noon—with the exact luxury model he'd always wanted, outrageously expensive, with no reasonable excuse for being placed in an employee workspace.
And yet—there it was.
Percy didn't have any extravagant demands—his were too complex to fulfill quickly. But the new head of International Magical Cooperation still took him to dinner and earnestly asked about his future. Was this really the department he wanted to be in? Would he prefer Magical Transportation? Magical Law Enforcement?
Arthur never asked for anything.
Yet the next day, he was moved to an office three times the size, got a raise, and even a monthly reimbursement allowance of a thousand Galleons.
Even the Weasleys' joke shop was exempted from taxes for six months. Border regulations and customs were noticeably eased too.
Mr. Diggory was baffled.
But Arthur and Percy understood.
This was the Ministry sending a message—they knew things had escalated. Hogwarts had united. Harry Potter was furious. Things had gone far beyond what the Ministry wanted.
The only issue? Harry was an orphan. They had no way to suck up to his parents.
So instead, the Ministry issued a 3,000 Galleon grant to the Black family—for restoring their old home—even though they never applied for it.
Hermione's parents were Muggles.
They couldn't even approach them to offer help. All they could do was sigh.
Why was it so hard to get on Potter's good side?
The Daily Prophet wouldn't publish the story until a week later.
By then, Professor Black—beloved by the students—had returned to Hogwarts, and Defense Against the Dark Arts was back to normal.
Of course, the Monday and Friday "mega classes" didn't stop!
The students had paid, after all. A few Sickles or even a Galleon per person couldn't just buy three or four lessons.
Neville and Hermione taught them how to fight—how to think like young wizards and witches in real battle.
Harry occasionally gave a lesson too. They cherished every second.
Sirius loved these big classes—he was even more enthusiastic than with his own.
The ice had thawed.
The Black Lake unfroze, and the classes moved lakeside.
It was then that Dumbledore finally returned.
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Powerstones?
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