Blake absently ran his fingers through his thick, dark hair.
"Don't worry," he said lightly. "I'm probably not going to go bald. And even if it did fall out, I could make it grow back."
Old Lepp didn't answer—just chuckled quietly and moved to usher Blake toward the door.
"Sleeping's a kind of pleasure, lad. Like a good meal," the old man muttered. "If you don't sleep, I still will. And look at the hour! Old bones need less rest, but even so… You can come by in daylight if you've something to say—or send a letter. But turning up at three or four in the morning? Terrible habit…"
Still mumbling, Old Lepp gently but firmly nudged Blake out of the room.
"Good night, Master Blake."
The door swung shut with a soft bump, nearly grazing Blake's nose.
Blake stood blinking at the closed door. He raised a hand as if to knock again, then dropped it and sighed.
"All right, all right… my fault," he murmured to himself.
In truth, he'd made the same mistake his stubborn boss had in his past life: turning up on someone's doorstep in the dead of night. It really was annoying.
He turned away, and a shimmering dimensional door flared open behind him.
"Good night, Old Lepp," Blake called softly, stepping through.
Ministry of Magic – Minister's Office
"No need to keep looking!" Fudge barked, anger tightening his face. "Sirius and Peter must be with Dumbledore!"
He slammed his hand on the desk, rattling the inkwell.
"If Dumbledore didn't have them," he growled, "he wouldn't be pushing for a Supreme Court trial, let alone announcing a date!"
"Recall the Aurors and Strikers!" Fudge ordered sharply.
Kingsley Shacklebolt nodded silently and left at once.
Delis, the aide, shifted uneasily. "Minister… Shafiq wants to know how it's going…"
At the name Shafiq, Fudge's eyes snapped up, chin lifting.
At first, he'd thought Sirius would be a prize to sell—a chance to gain favor and power. But now everything was slipping through his fingers.
If they couldn't capture Sirius, Shafiq's promised help would evaporate. Worse still, he'd have angered Dumbledore and gained nothing. A perfect disaster.
"Ignore him!" Fudge snapped, voice edged with panic. "If Shafiq wants answers, let him ask Dumbledore directly! See how far he gets."
Who could possibly track down someone hidden by Albus Dumbledore? Even back when the Potters were betrayed, it had taken a traitor to reveal their hiding place.
And now? Sirius and Peter were too important. Fudge half‑suspected Dumbledore had used a new Fidelius Charm to hide them.
Pointless to keep searching.
Once the Wizengamot convened, Sirius and Peter would appear under guard—and the evidence was overwhelming. Even as presiding judge, Fudge knew the jury wouldn't bend for him.
"I still don't have enough sway in the Wizengamot…" he muttered, slumping back in his chair.
In hindsight, perhaps he'd broken with Bullido too soon. If he'd waited a year or two—allowed his supporters to burrow deeper into the Wizengamot's ranks—things could be different.
But regret was useless now.
Then a spark of determination returned to his eyes. After all, he still had Grindelwald behind him. With Grindelwald's backing, it would be quicker to seize influence—far quicker than waiting on Dumbledore's goodwill.
Fudge's breathing steadied. For this round, I'll admit defeat, he thought grimly.
Then suddenly, an idea.
He pushed himself upright.
"Delis! When did Dumbledore say the trial is?"
"September 20th, Minister," Delis answered cautiously.
"Good…" Fudge's gaze turned sharp. "It's not over yet. We still have a chance."
"Delis, fetch Scrimgeour. Now."
Rufus Scrimgeour—head of the Auror Office, commander of every Auror and Striker.
"Yes, Minister." Delis left quickly.
Fudge settled back in his chair, small eyes glinting with cold calculation.
"If the plaintiff and defendant… simply vanish… then the trial can't happen at all," he murmured.
Firelight flickered over his face, and for a moment, it looked almost cruel.
Room of Requirement
Blake stood surrounded by lush magical plants, the air thick with fragrant leaves and faintly glowing blossoms. He scratched his head, realizing he'd planned to sort them tonight.
A glance at his pocket watch: past three‑thirty.
"Old Lepp's right," Blake sighed. "Sleep's a pleasure too. Why am I working myself ragged…"
Stretching, he walked toward a nearby wooden hut nestled among the plants.
"What's tomorrow… Herbal class? Maybe I'll ask for leave. Professor Sprout won't mind," he muttered.
He pushed open the door—and stopped short, blinking.
Inside, Cassandra lounged on his sofa, wrapped in loose pajamas, hair slightly tousled like a drowsy Persian cat.
"Ah… you… why are you here?" Blake stammered, startled.
Cassandra rubbed her sleepy eyes, green gaze meeting his.
"You're finally back," she murmured softly. "I figured you'd come here sooner or later."
Blake swallowed, heart pounding.
"Now, I'm warning you—don't test my weakness!" he blurted.
"Weakness?" Cassandra echoed, head tilting, curiosity in her voice. "What weakness?"
She stretched, and the loose fabric shifted, revealing a glimpse of pale skin that made Blake's thoughts scatter.
"Why were you waiting for me?" he asked, voice a little hoarse.
"At first, just to talk," she replied, blinking lazily. "But it's late now… maybe I should go back."
She moved to rise, her hand reaching toward her ring to open a dimensional door.
Blake's hand shot out, catching hers gently but firmly.
"You… you're leaving now? Testing the patience of your captain, are you?"
Cassandra smiled, brushing her fingers across his cheek.
"What? You want to eat me?" she teased softly.
"The atmosphere's already at the tipping point," Blake murmured. "Don't you think it's cruel to leave now?"
"What do you want then?" she asked, tilting her head, playful.
"Didn't you say?" Blake whispered. "Even if it's late… we can still talk…"
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