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On either side of the long table, the Hogwarts Board of Governors sat in heavy silence, their faces clouded with gloom. Not a single word of greeting was exchanged. The tension in the room was thick, sharp as a drawn blade.
Lucius Malfoy sat quietly at a corner seat, his silver serpent-headed cane resting lightly beneath his fingertips. He tapped it idly, his gaze cool and his expression unreadable, as though the entire meeting was beneath his interest.
Chairing the gathering was the elderly Heckenis Shafiq. After a brief clearing of his throat, his voice came out hoarse and dry. "Ladies and gentlemen, Macnair is dead. The Board must appoint a new member to take his place."
Ottaline Selwyn slammed his hand against the table with a loud bang. "That madman! He controlled that monster and murdered Walton right in front of Cornelius Fudge. And now you expect us to believe this man is a professor at Hogwarts? He is more brazen than the Dark Lord ever was."
Percival Travers gave a sharp nod of agreement. "We should align ourselves with the Ministry of Magic and expose his crimes to the public. Let the entire wizarding world see the truth. Hogwarts is harboring a dark wizard even more dangerous than Lord Voldemort."
"Exactly! We should pressure the Daily Prophet to run the story and force them to reveal that Sargeras controls monsters and murdered a school governor. Let the public see him as the next Dark Lord. Then we rally the pure-blood families, push Dumbledore to expel him, and if necessary, push for a tribunal at the International Confederation of Wizards."
Across the table, Griselda Fawley slowly shook her head. Her voice was soft, yet carried an imperceptible, chilling tremor. "Have you all lost your minds? Have you already forgotten the terrifying appearance of that monster that day? Do you want something like that showing up at your family's dinner table?"
"Sargeras is not Lord Voldemort," she continued, her tone dropping lower, laced with quiet dread. "His danger lies in something else entirely… he doesn't need the backing of the pure-blood families. Which means… he could strike anyone, at any time." Her gaze swept across the room, and when she spoke again, her voice was barely above a whisper. "Haven't you realized? Even Dumbledore… can't stop him."
"What about the Ministry?" someone asked. "What's their stance?"
"They'll most likely remain silent. Keep the peace and let things blow over."
"Fudge, that good-for-nothing coward…"
"If the Ministry chooses silence and Dumbledore refuses to act, then why should the Board rush to make itself his enemy?"
Lucius cleared his throat lightly and finally spoke. His voice was smooth as polished glass. "Rather than arguing over how to confront him, perhaps we should be asking ourselves something far more important. Can we even confront him at all?"
Ottaline Selwyn shot him a glare, his tone sharp and accusing. "What's this, Malfoy? Are you scared? Or is there some… private dealing between you and that madman?"
Lucius gave a cold, elegant chuckle. "I'm merely being realistic. If you're all so eager to die, I certainly won't stand in your way. But don't drag the rest of the School Board down with you."
Percival Travers clenched his teeth. "So what then? Are we just going to let it go? Did Walton die for nothing?"
Marcella Burke let out a heavy sigh. "It's not about letting it go… it's about waiting for the right time."
Lucius gave a nod and followed with a calm suggestion. "In the meantime, I propose we postpone the vote to fill the vacant seat on the Board."
Though his voice remained steady and composed, his true intention was clear: to buy time for himself, time to ensure that the empty seat would eventually be claimed by someone under his influence.
"What about Walton's death, then?"
"Announce it to the public as a 'sudden and severe illness.' Try to persuade the Macnair family to stay quiet. Best if the funeral is held discreetly…"
"But there's no body left. What kind of funeral are we supposed to hold?"
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Cornelius Fudge had changed. In all his years as Minister for Magic, he had never been so completely consumed by rage.
He paced restlessly across the office floor, the rhythmic clunk of his new magical prosthetic echoing through the room in heavy, metallic clicks. It had only been a day since the incident, and yet the replacement was already in place. The device was a gaudy contraption, inlaid with ornate golden runes, far too elaborate for something meant to serve as a substitute for a severed arm.
But each time his eyes caught the gleam of polished wood and gleaming metal, a sharp twitch ran through his cheek. He couldn't help it. His jaw tightened.
"That maniac… he dared to control a monster to attack me," he muttered through clenched teeth. "And Dumbledore… he could have done something, he must have had a way to save me. But he just stood there and watched… no. No, he didn't just stand there. He's the one who cut off my arm."
The words spilled out like poison, thick with bitterness. But as soon as he pictured Sargeras' eyes again — those grey eyes, cold and unblinking, completely devoid of emotion — a memory surged back, raw and vivid. That blood-soaked vision stabbed into his mind without warning.
A chill seized him at once. His whole body tensed, and the back of his robe was soaked with cold sweat. He swallowed the furious shout that had risen in his throat and forced it down, his voice now rasping and unsteady, barely more than a whisper.
"No… no. I can't… I mustn't provoke him…"
Just then, a cautious knock came at the door.
Fudge spun around too fast. His heavy magical prosthetic slammed into the edge of the desk with a loud bang, knocking over a silver inkstand in the process.
Dark violet ink burst forth like congealed blood, splattering across the surface and spilling down in thick, sticky streams. It soaked into a pile of parchment, smearing across the documents like a spreading stain.
Standing in the doorway were two men.
One was Rufus Scrimgeour, head of the Auror Office, his expression grave. The other was Barnabas Cuffe, editor-in-chief of the Daily Prophet, his face pale and drawn, with unease practically dripping from every movement he made.
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Scrimgeour's brow was tightly furrowed. His grayish-yellow eyes locked onto Fudge with piercing focus. "Minister," he said firmly, "our Aurors saw it with their own eyes. Sargeras summoned a monster and used it to kill. That is irrefutable evidence—"
"Ironclad evidence?!"
Fudge cut him off with a shrill outburst, as though the very word had burned him. His intact hand waved wildly in agitation, while the ink-stained magical prosthetic thudded against the desk in an uneven rhythm — thump, thump, thump — a maddening, relentless sound that scraped at the nerves.
"Yes, ironclad evidence. And then what?" His voice trembled with a mix of fear and fury. "Do we send Aurors to arrest him? Do you have any idea what happens when you cast the Killing Curse at that thing? It's like you're feeding it tonic!"
He leaned in closer to Scrimgeour, his voice dropping to a hoarse whisper, but the fear behind it could not be hidden. "Listen to me. Refer to Section Thirteen of the Maximum Magical Measures. Every Auror involved in the operation is to sign a Silence Contract, and all related memories are to be erased. Completely."
Then, with bloodshot eyes, he turned to Cuffe, who stood frozen, too afraid to breathe.
"And your reporters. The ones who were on site — make sure they keep their mouths shut. If even one of them dares to say a single word…"
His teeth ground together audibly. "I'll throw them straight into Azkaban. Let them share a cell with the Dementors!"
"But Minister… the Department still needs an explanation. For internal order…" Scrimgeour tried to reason with him, clinging to a shred of professional protocol.
"An explanation?!"
Fudge lashed out again, waving his hand furiously to silence him. "We tell them we encountered an extremely dangerous and unidentified magical creature riot. Something highly volatile. As for the details… those fall under the highest classification of dark magic defense protocols. They are absolutely confidential. Not to be disclosed. Understood?"
Scrimgeour's jaw tightened, and a flicker of contempt crossed his eyes. It was brief, almost imperceptible, but still sharp and unmistakable. In the end, he gave a stiff nod.
"…Yes, Minister."
At last, Barnabas Cuffe found the courage to speak, wringing his hands nervously, a strained smile plastered across his face. "Minister, please rest assured… our coverage of the Hogwarts incident will strictly follow your previous instructions. Low-key, understated. We'll emphasize that the crisis has been resolved and that order was swiftly restored…"
"'Low-key'? 'Understated'?"
Fudge exploded once again. With a burst of fury, he grabbed Cuffe by the collar with his good hand, yanking him forward so violently that flecks of spit landed across the editor's trembling face.
"I don't want it low-key. What I want is for it to be completely erased. My arm! Your employees! The dead Hogwarts board of governor! Not a single word about any of them is allowed to appear in your pathetic excuse for a newspaper! And you… you're not to mention his name. Not once. Are we clear?!"
Cuffe stammered, his lips barely able to form the words. "B-but… the readers… they deserve the truth…"
"The truth?"
Fudge yanked him in even closer, practically screaming now, his voice raw with desperation and rage.
"The last person who went chasing after the truth, Rita Skeeter, was eaten to bits so thoroughly that not even her hair was left. Do you want to end up the same way?"
Then, just as suddenly, he let go.
Cuffe staggered back, trembling. Fudge straightened his robes, smoothed his collar, and composed himself with deliberate care. A look of solemn pride settled over his face, as though a grand 'tragedy' had just unfolded and he alone bore the weight of its consequences.
"Listen to me, Cuffe. I'll give you a truth."
He straightened his back with great ceremony, then slapped his chest hard with his good hand.
"The truth is this: I, Cornelius Fudge, in order to protect the innocent students of Hogwarts, led from the front and threw myself into battle against a savage, unidentified creature born of dark magic! And this wound…" he said, raising the prosthetic arm with theatrical flair, "is the badge of honor I earned defending the future of the wizarding world."
Deliberately, he gave the prosthetic a firm shake, then barked in a commanding tone that left no room for argument, "I've even thought of the headline for next week's front page for you. It will read: 'Cornelius Fudge, the Fearless Shield of Hogwarts!'"
He wasn't finished yet. Muttering to himself, he added, "I want the entire front page to be about me. And for the accompanying photo… hmm… choose one where I look contemplative. Stern. Determined. A strong solo portrait! And if you so much as misspell a single word…" He gave a low, menacing chuckle. "Let's just say you won't want to find out what happens."
Cuffe stood there, wide-eyed and speechless, staring at Fudge's face. It switched back and forth so effortlessly between that of a self-styled "hero" and an unhinged "tyrant." Watching him was like seeing a snake coil tighter and tighter around its prey. All he could do was nod stiffly, the words stuck in his throat.
Once everyone had finally left, Fudge stepped up to the tall, floor-to-ceiling window and stared at his own faint reflection in the glass. He began rehearsing his "tragic hero" speech in front of it, over and over, raising his prosthetic arm with each declaration:
"The wizarding world needs sacrifice… and I wear my scars as honor!"
"At that time, the monster was just ten feet away from the children… and without a second thought, I stepped between them—"
But at this point, Fudge suddenly faltered. Because in that moment, the truth hit him. Back then, he hadn't stepped between anything. He had been running. Sprinting, in fact, straight for the highest tower.
"Damn it!"
A mixture of shame and fury surged up through his heart. In a sudden outburst, he grabbed the nearest water glass from his desk and smashed it to the floor. It shattered into a spray of shards and water everywhere.
He stared down at the prosthetic, his voice dropping to a vicious growl. His jaw clenched so hard that his teeth clicked.
"Sargeras… you bastard. You hell-bound, filthy little freak. One day… one day I'm going to make you kneel before me and reattach this damned thing with your own damn hands!"
But just as the words left his mouth, a crow outside the window happened to flap its wings and pass by, letting out a hoarse caw.
The sound cut through the silence like a curse.
Fudge jumped in fright and stumbled backward, his face suddenly pale. He stared after the bird as if it were one of Sargeras's spies, sent to watch and report on his every move.
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Down the corridor, tucked away in a shadowy corner, stood two young Aurors who had been present in the Chamber of Secrets. Through the crack in the office door, they had caught fragments of Fudge's shouting; his roars, his threats, and the final crash of glass.
One of them finally couldn't hold it in any longer. He let out a dry, scoffing laugh through his nose.
"'Fearless Shield,' huh? Ha! I bet ten Galleons the pair of wet trousers he changed out of is still sitting in a laundry bucket back home, waiting for a house-elf to scrub them clean. I swear, he almost pissed himself right on Dumbledore's shoes."
The other Auror glanced around cautiously, then leaned in with a whisper.
"Honestly, I'm glad we signed the silence contract. At least this way, we don't have to be dragged back out there by our 'fearless' Minister, just to end up as that thing's afternoon snack. Between you and me? I'd take my chances with ten Dark wizards before I'd get within arm's reach of that monster again."
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[Chapter End's]
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