The office buzzed with noisy discussion.
Everyone stared at Thicknesse, their expressions varied.
But none were as complicated as Scrimgeour's.
This… couldn't have been Thicknesse's doing. He didn't have the brains for such cunning, nor the guts for a move this decisive. He was an unremarkable puppet propped up by Voldemort—how could he suddenly make the move most advantageous to himself?
Scrimgeour's eyes locked on Thicknesse's left arm.
No Dark Mark.
He had planned to raid the Department of Mysteries today, arrest those two Death Eaters, then pressure Thicknesse to step down. Even without correspondence linking him to Malfoy Manor, the testimony of captured Death Eaters alone would've been enough to convict him—especially with Mr. Potter and Professor Dumbledore behind him.
But now, that path was gone.
Thicknesse acted first. He captured the Death Eaters himself. He condemned himself first.
And especially that last line—
"Always stood beside Professor Dumbledore and Mr. Potter, on the front line against Voldemort."
That was basically calling Scrimgeour Dumbledore and Potter's lapdog. Thicknesse could say something like that?
Sure, Scrimgeour could become Minister.
But becoming a hardline Minister with near-absolute power by hunting Death Eaters? That fantasy was dead. That one line killed it.
Scrimgeour glanced at the officials in the room.
Some celebrated Voldemort's death, others were touched by Thicknesse's "honesty," and some simply cheered for themselves.
But he knew.
Right now, they were all wondering: "Is the Ministry of Magic still ours—or does it now belong to Potter and Dumbledore?"
Pitiful.
"Rufus, Rufus!" Thicknesse called his name, snapping him from his thoughts. "Come on up."
Scrimgeour walked over.
"Right now, the person most qualified—most deserving—to lead the Ministry is you," Thicknesse said warmly. "Come, say a few words."
Scrimgeour stepped to the desk.
At that moment, he unquestionably became the desk's master—the room's master.
"The Dark Lord—no, Voldemort—is dead," Scrimgeour said, taking a deep breath and naming the feared figure aloud. "At Malfoy Manor. Not only Voldemort, but a group of Death Eaters were killed. I've already dispatched Tonks to secure the scene and confirm identities."
He didn't mention Bellatrix.
That one was still alive—captured by Mr. Potter and locked in Hogwarts.
Mr. Potter said she might still be useful.
Let him keep her, then.
"We can say now that Voldemort's faction—the Death Eaters—has been nearly wiped out. We are no longer under their threat," Scrimgeour said, voice steady.
Just as he was about to continue—
Thicknesse led a round of applause. Enthusiastic clapping filled the room.
Scrimgeour was interrupted. The momentum he'd built collapsed. When the applause finally died down, he continued, "I know the Ministry still harbors many pests—these two are not alone."
"I hope they'll surrender and confess voluntarily. Don't make me come after you."
"If you do, your punishment will be lighter. And your reputation better preserved."
He looked at the crowd. Many lowered their heads and said nothing.
Scrimgeour shot an annoyed glance at Thicknesse—who, like the rest, now bowed his head.
If not for that damned applause, someone might have stepped forward.
He exhaled and said, "As for Mr. Thicknesse, I think—"
"I think Mr. Thicknesse would be well-suited to head the Auror Office," interrupted Gilbert Wimple from the Committee on Experimental Charms.
Scrimgeour stared at him, silent.
Gilbert continued seriously, "Mr. Scrimgeour, with you becoming Minister, the Auror Office needs a new director."
"I suggest Kingsley," Scrimgeour said plainly.
Kingsley Shacklebolt.
A near-perfect successor by their standards.
Capable, young.
Pureblood—and a member of one of the Sacred Twenty-Eight. Pure Britain.
The only problem…
He was in the Order of the Phoenix—and loyal to Scrimgeour.
"Kingsley is excellent, no doubt," Gilbert nodded. "But he's young. I admit he has great experience fighting dark wizards, but dear Rufus, what we need now is order—not more conflict. We need to stabilize society."
"Minister Thicknesse may have been Imperiused, but undeniably, he brought us a kind of stability, didn't he?"
"Minister Thicknesse"—
Those words grated on the ears.
"I support Minister Thicknesse becoming the Auror Director," another official said, raising a hand.
"I agree—Minister Thicknesse should take the position," said others.
One by one, more joined in—all using "Minister Thicknesse."
Scrimgeour had a headache.
So this was what being Minister meant?
He wanted to be like Mr. Potter—pull his wand and blast them all.
Thicknesse stepped in to defuse it. "Let's not push Mr. Scrimgeour—he surely has his own thoughts."
"Once the new Minister election council convenes in a few days, we'll handle everything properly."
Scrimgeour said coldly, "Fine. So be it."
He stepped away from the desk—his earlier sense of ownership nothing more than a delusion. These stubborn fools were the true rulers here.
As the officials dispersed, many approached to chat or flatter him.
Some even hinted that if Scrimgeour considered marriage, they had daughters to introduce.
All of it overwhelmed him.
Still—
At least something good happened today.
Shortly after returning to the Auror Office—
Someone came knocking quietly.
"My dear Rufus," said a tall, slim man in a peacock-green robe, hair neatly styled. "I have some matters to consult you on."
Baird Nott.
Head of the Portkey Office, Department of Magical Transportation.
"What do you need, Mr. Nott?" Scrimgeour asked, noting the man's cautious glance as he closed the door. Scrimgeour already had an idea why he was here.
Nott took a deep breath. "Rufus, how will you handle those Death Eaters who surrender?"
"I'll be lenient," Scrimgeour said without hesitation. "But I doubt they'll be allowed to stay in the Ministry."
"They won't?" Nott was surprised.
Scrimgeour nodded. "These pests already escaped punishment once—you know what I mean. I'm talking about ten years ago."
"There was a first time. There shouldn't be a second."
Nott clenched his fists. "But… but that's against protocol."
"What protocol?" Scrimgeour asked.
Nott stammered—he meant pureblood tradition, of course.
Scrimgeour sighed, his voice slow and firm. "Even if that were a rule—how will you explain it to Mr. Potter? He's still occupied, but once he finishes and turns his gaze back, and sees Death Eaters still loose in the Ministry—what do you think he'll do?"
Nott turned pale.
Scrimgeour continued, "I don't care. Worst case, he punches me a few times."
"Breaks a rib or two, I'll rest in St. Mungo's."
"But you—and the others still here? What about them?"
"Mr. Potter won't hesitate to tear the Ministry apart to flush them out. He'll personally ensure they get their 'dignified punishment.'"
Nott went even paler.
"Dumbledore—he, he…"
He tried to comfort himself.
Scrimgeour cut him off. "Do you think Mr. Potter won't do it?"
"Or that Professor Dumbledore can stop him when he's angry?"
Nott's knees buckled. He staggered back, hitting the door.
"Mr. Nott, I still have work to do," Scrimgeour said with a couple of coughs. "My time in this chair is limited."
"Please close the door on your way out."
Nott nodded blankly, muttered an "oh," and stumbled away.
The death of Voldemort was a thrilling, euphoric event.
The Daily Prophet rejoiced.
Even The Quibbler made it front-page news.
The wizarding world celebrated—Voldemort was dead, and Harry Potter lived again.
Just like over a decade ago.
Somewhere in Britain—
In a vast underground cavern, Ragnok clenched a newspaper, seething as he read the headline. Around him, goblins clanged at their forges—but their rhythmic hammering no longer pleased him.
He pulled out a mirror and whispered, "Barty Crouch."
The surface shimmered.
Soon, a pale human face appeared.
"My dear Ragnok, contacting me at this time?" said Barty Crouch Jr., his face even whiter than before. The background behind him was shrouded in mist—obscuring his surroundings. He glanced nervously behind the goblin.
"The Dark Lord is dead!" Ragnok roared. "What are you people doing?"
"Our revenge—"
Crouch, seeing none of the things he feared behind Ragnok, relaxed a little and waved a hand. "Everything is proceeding as planned, my goblin friend."
"Whether it's my father's death or this news cycle."
"Try not to panic, alright?"
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Powerstones?
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