Betting must be fair.
Shafiq's doubts were reasonable—but so was Blake's request, especially since Blake had agreed to all of Shafiq's harsh terms.
"I...I..." Shafiq stammered, face contorted. He wanted to refuse, but he couldn't. The person behind him had just issued an order, and Blake had met every condition.
He'd been backed into a corner—methodically roasted over a fire Blake had lit.
But thinking of the odds, Shafiq regained his confidence. With Blake accepting all his demands, the advantage felt his.
This wave—victory is mine!
"Fine! I agree!" Shafiq said through gritted teeth.
"Good. So, what's the bet?" Blake asked.
Shafiq hesitated, then offered: "Ten thousand Galleons?"
Blake frowned. "My reputation and an Order of Merlin, First Class—for ten thousand Galleons? That's not just insulting me, it's insulting the Wizengamot."
Murmurs rose. Regardless of how Blake earned the medal, he had stood up to scrutiny—unlike someone hiding behind Dumbledore. Shafiq now looked like the one overreaching.
Realizing he was pushing too far, Shafiq asked, "Then what do you want from me?"
Blake smirked. "Honestly? There's nothing you could offer that I'd value... except perhaps your most precious asset."
Shafiq stiffened. "Which is...?"
Blake pointed at his Wizengamot robes. "Not your money—your position. If you lose, you resign. My medal and reputation for your Wizengamot seat. That's generous on my part."
Shafiq's face turned pale. The goblins had poured money into his ascent—from obscurity to political influence—all for this seat. Now he was being asked to risk it.
Each month, goblins deposited Galleons into his Gringotts vault. If he lost his seat, he was useless to them.
Worse, he wasn't the only one they backed. They could drop him instantly.
Blake's terms didn't just threaten his reputation—they targeted his very foundation.
Still, an insistent whisper echoed in his mind: "Bet with him. Are you afraid to lose?"
He cursed the goblins silently. He didn't want to gamble his position—not even for a 0.1% chance of loss.
But he had no choice.
"Fine. I accept," Shafiq said reluctantly.
"Excellent. Minister Fudge, can you witness this?" Blake turned to Fudge, who'd been quietly observing.
For Fudge, it was a drama unrelated to him. Still, he harbored resentment toward Shafiq, who had once revoked benefits Fudge granted.
"If Shafiq loses, I'll personally strip his title," Fudge agreed. "But if you can't back your claims, Blake—"
"Don't worry," Blake said calmly. "I wouldn't make it hard for you."
He turned to Shafiq. "Ready with your questions? Or do you need help from the one feeding you lines?"
All eyes followed Blake's gaze to a nondescript wizard in the crowd. The man froze.
Exposed? But when?
He'd relied on his forgettable appearance for years, going unnoticed—more ghost than person.
Now, under Blake's stare, the illusion shattered.
Everyone understood instantly: Shafiq isn't clever enough to formulate those sharp questions. Someone's guiding him.
All attention locked on the plain-looking wizard. For the first time, he was the center of the room—and visibly uncomfortable.
Any reaction would betray him further, so he widened his eyes, pretending confusion. But inside, panic bloomed.
He was burned. His Ministry infiltration days were over.
Blake still smiled calmly.
If goblins wanted war, he'd make them bleed—at their most sensitive spot: their gold.
How many Galleons did they burn securing two Wizengamot seats?
Fudge squinted at the man and asked Kingsley, "Who is he?"
"I've seen him before," Kingsley replied. "He's on the Wizengamot. Quiet. Low-profile."
"What's his name?"
Kingsley shrugged. "No idea."
Fudge: ...…
Blake's theory made sense. If true, this man was another goblin puppet.
That realization made Fudge uneasy. Until now, he hadn't even known Shafiq worked for goblins.
Now it seemed there were multiple infiltrators in the Ministry.
Dumbledore narrowed his eyes at the man. He'd suspected someone had guided Shafiq, but not him...
Blake has intelligence Dumbledore didn't know about.
That meant he came to the ceremony knowing this would happen.
He hadn't come for the medal.
Dumbledore exhaled. If Blake planned this, he must be prepared. Better not to interfere.
Shafiq, realizing what Blake had just done, looked at the man too. He didn't even know who his handler was—just that it was someone the goblins sent.
Was it this ordinary wizard?
"So," Blake said with a smile, "what potion or spell are you asking me to produce?"
Shafiq paused, waiting for guidance. But the mysterious voice didn't return.
Still, the instructions had already been given.
"Dragon pox," he finally said. "Cure it—with no scars. Or you fail."
Gasps erupted.
Dragon pox—contagious, dangerous, and notoriously incurable.
It left skin blue, pocked with scars. Even mild cases produced nasty rashes and sneezing sparks.
Some compared it to magical smallpox. It had no known cure.
And now, Shafiq was asking Blake to invent one—within an hour. And without lasting effects.
Impossible.
"Fine," Blake nodded. "But how will we test if it works?"
"I can help," said Dean Bohan of St. Mungo's. "We've patients with terminal dragon pox—already issued death notices."
He turned to Blake, hopeful. "If your potion works, they'll volunteer."
Blake nodded, "Trust me."
Bohan turned to Shafiq. "I'll oversee the trial. Any objections?"
"You're too close to him! You could cheat!" Shafiq complained.
Bohan lost patience. "You idiot! If we could cure dragon pox, we wouldn't need Blake at all!"
Shafiq went quiet. That was the whole point.
Bohan took out a teleportation rune and vanished—through a portal set up by Dumbledore using Blake's emergency system.
An hourglass was brought out and flipped. The countdown began.
"Blake, we've prepared a lab for you," said Fudge. "All materials and instruments are ready. Kingsley will escort you."
Blake shook his head. "That won't be necessary."
"What do you need then?" Fudge asked, surprised.
"Just a piece of parchment, please."
"Parchment?" Fudge blinked.
"Yes. That's all."
Confused murmurs spread through the hall. Potions required elaborate preparation. Brewing, testing, iterations. How could Blake work with just parchment?
Eventually, parchment was brought. Blake thanked them, cut a square, and pulled out his quill.
He began to write.
Silence gripped the room. No one had ever witnessed a potion being invented—on paper.
Within a minute, Blake stopped, inspected the parchment, and smiled.
He handed it to Fudge.
"I'm done," he said.
"What? You wrote a cure—in one minute?!"
"Not exactly," Blake replied. "I studied dragon pox ten days ago. Ran a few experiments. The theory was already in place. I just needed to put it down."
Fudge blinked. "Ten days of research?"
"Yes, sir. And whether it's ten days or one hour—if it works, the result is the same."