A chill crept up from Cornelius Fudge's feet.
He, of course, knew Natasha.
This former Ministry of Magic employee had been involved in a case years ago, receiving Dana Emrys's mother under mysterious circumstances. When whispers began surfacing that perhaps the wrong person had been imprisoned, Cornelius Fudge panicked. To prevent his misdeeds from being uncovered, he coerced Barty Crouch into dispatching Aurors and Hit Wizards. Under the false accusation that Natasha had accessed classified Ministry documents, they forcibly erased her memory.
Now, looking at the dazed and confused Natasha in front of him, Cornelius Fudge turned sharply toward Elisa.
"And who are you to her?"
"Who am I to her?" Elisa's voice cracked with emotion. "I'm her wife!"
Tears rolled down Elisa's cheeks.
"If we hadn't met the Count, she and I would've been destroyed long ago! Natasha might've died, and I—I would've fallen into ruin."
"The Count?" Fudge echoed, momentarily stunned.
"If Count Dantes knew how you treated me, he wouldn't let you go!" Elisa shouted, her voice gaining strength. "I'm his most trusted partner! I even made him honorary Deputy Minister of Magic!"
She sobbed, yet a sneer formed on her lips.
"Whether the Count will be angry or not, you can go ask him yourself."
She tapped lightly on the corner of the desk.
A red beam suddenly shot from the ceiling, striking Cornelius Fudge directly.
"Ah—!"
With a scream, he vanished from the office.
… …
Cornelius Fudge opened his eyes and looked at his hands—
They glowed red, but he wasn't dead. At least, not yet.
He squinted at the sunlight filtering through a weathered stone window. The brightness was harsh, casting deep shadows in the corners of the chamber.
"Isn't this Mr. Cornelius Fudge? Good afternoon."
Fudge's heart skipped a beat. He turned toward the voice. Only the lower half of the speaker's body was visible; the upper half cloaked in shadow.
"Your Excellency, the Count?"
Though the face was obscured, he recognized the voice.
"It is I, and it is not I."
Count Dantes stepped forward, emerging into the light.
"Ah! Your Excellency, Count—your subordinate Elisa has behaved most outrageously, she—"
Fudge's sentence died in his throat as the Count's body rapidly shrank.
Before his eyes now stood a ten-year-old boy with emerald eyes.
"Dana Emrys!?"
Fudge rubbed his eyes in disbelief.
Yes—it was him. Dana Emrys. The Quidditch prodigy. The once-in-a-generation genius.
"How—how is it you?" Fudge stammered.
"Why shouldn't it be?"
Dana laughed lightly.
"Could it be that Mr. Cornelius Fudge doesn't know why I'm here?"
Fudge swallowed. He was afraid. Deeply afraid.
He knew about Dana Emrys's fall. After all, he had orchestrated it.
First Natasha. Now Dana. If he didn't understand the purpose of this confrontation, he truly was a fool.
"Oh, Dana, you must be mistaken," he said, trying to produce a fawning smile. But his trembling face muscles made it a twisted, grotesque mask.
"It wasn't me who locked you in Azkaban—it was Crouch! Yes, Barty Crouch did it!"
Dana sneered.
"I'll deal with Barty Crouch in due time. But today is your day of reckoning."
"No, no, I swear—it had nothing to do with me! At the time, I had no power, no authority. I couldn't possibly interfere with the Department of Magical Law Enforcement!"
"But you knew Barty Crouch Jr. was a Death Eater," Dana said coolly. "And I think that in his ambition to become Minister, Crouch Sr. didn't want you spilling that secret. Of course, he did something for you, and you still leaked it."
He took a step forward.
"You see, Mr. Cornelius Fudge, I know everything you've done. All the rot beneath your robes. Barty Crouch told me everything. Of course, back then I spoke to him as Count Dantes."
Cornelius Fudge's entire body began to shake.
His wand was gone—taken by Elisa. Dana Emrys, though underage, was more than powerful enough to destroy him.
"You must've used Polyjuice Potion," Fudge stammered. "Your relationship with the Count made it easy. But I warn you—don't act impulsively. My connection with the Count is strong. If you harm me—"
"What will happen?" Dana interrupted, smiling.
Then his form shifted. He became Dark Dantes, the mysterious and revered figure of legend.
Cornelius Fudge stumbled back, terrified.
"How did you do that? You didn't drink anything!"
Dana snorted and transformed back.
"There has never been a Dark Dantes," he said coldly. "There is only Dana Emrys."
Fudge felt as if lightning had exploded in his mind.
He stumbled back again and collapsed onto the floor with a thud.
"No… this can't be real…"
Dana calmly stroked his chin.
"Mr. Cornelius Fudge. Ever since I walked out of Azkaban and saw my mother's bones—I have vowed to make those responsible pay. Do you know my mother? No, of course you don't. To you, she was just another name—something you could erase."
He exhaled slowly.
"But I'll tell you this: if there is one person whose death makes me want to burn this world down, it's my mother—Anna."
He looked down at Fudge, his expression unreadable.
"So when I found out that you helped Ollivander Avery replace me and Gai Avery all those years ago… do you know how much rage I had to suppress? How deeply I had to bury my desire to kill you on the spot?"
Fudge didn't respond. He was crawling backward on the floor, leaving a trail of filth behind.
"You're pathetic, Mr. Cornelius Fudge," Dana whispered.
"After I killed Sally Avery, I realized something: killing doesn't bring me peace. But making my enemies wish they were dead—that's the true justice I crave."
He paused.
"Just so you know, Donna Avery is still in Azkaban. Her arms and legs are shattered. Her tongue is gone. She's surrounded by Inferi. And every night, she dances with Dementors."
He gave a mock sigh.
"Aren't I merciful? I didn't even kill her."
Fudge began trembling violently. He crawled toward the window, grasping at the stone to pull himself up.
Dana tilted his head.
"What should I do with you?"
Fudge tried three times before finally managing to stand. His legs shook under his weight. He shoved the window open.
A cold sea breeze blew in. He stuck his head out and saw jagged cliffs and crashing waves. The sea was far below—at least fifty yards.
If he jumped, he would surely die.
But if he stayed… he would wish for death.
He reached out further, considering the fall. But fear gripped him. He shrieked and pulled back, unwilling to die.
"After all, you were once the Minister of Magic," Dana said softly. "You still hold some symbolic power. And you know, my concentration camp could use a signboard."
He smiled.
"Why don't you be that signboard, Mr. Cornelius Fudge?"
Fudge turned slowly, blankly, unable to process the words.
A signboard?
… …
… …
"What are you standing around for?! Move!"
The goblin Pucci cracked his whip across the back of a hunched, elderly goblin—a former elder of Gringotts.
The old goblin screamed, struggling to lift his pickaxe and slam it into the stone before him.
Pucci turned and shouted at the other goblins nearby.
"Anyone else slacking off?! If you don't meet your quota today, no dinner for anyone!"
Crack!
The whip lashed the ground.
"Get back to work!"
The goblins—once powerful bankers in Diagon Alley—shuddered and dug faster.
Pucci sneered, then looked to another mining pit. There, members of the Fire Serpent Party supervised a group of pure-blood wizards. These wizards had tried to sabotage Count Dantes's assets and were now paying for it.
Then Pucci turned his gaze upward—toward the top of the island.
There, nailed to a towering log, was a signboard.
It was Cornelius Fudge, the former Minister of Magic.
He had no hands. No feet. Naked. Impaled by iron nails through his shoulder blades. His hoarse shrieks echoed faintly through the wind. His mouth hung open—half his tongue gone.
His eyes had been gouged out. His ears sliced off. Only his face had been left somewhat intact—to make him recognizable.
He'd been nailed there for a week.
And in Pucci's opinion?
It was a brilliant idea.
Ever since that "signboard" went up, prisoner productivity had increased by more than a third.
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