Hogwarts, the corridor outside Professor Lockhart's office.
Amid gasps from the crowd, a magical prison carriage pulled by four Thestrals landed smoothly at the door.
Professor McGonagall was livid. "It's just a suspicion, Scrimgeour! How dare you bring Professor Lockhart in like some common criminal!"
She was itching to whip out her wand and knock every Auror flat.
McGonagall's temper wasn't exactly mild. To many young witches and wizards, she seemed perpetually stern, her face set in a rigid, rule-bound mask. But most of the time, she was just bottling up her inner fire.
Back in the days of Grindelwald's global upheaval, she fought his Saints with true Gryffindor gusto—charging headlong into battle, fierce and unyielding. Dumbledore once teased that she was a wildcat, all claws and fury, impossible to tame.
Yet McGonagall had settled down, retracting her claws. Not because of age, but because she carried a mission: to protect Hogwarts, to be Dumbledore's rock, securing the home front.
The war never stopped—not for a single day.
She knew Grindelwald's imprisonment in Nurmengard didn't bring peace. On the contrary, the wizarding world's tensions simmered, and the rift between wizards and Muggles grew sharper. Something was bound to happen.
Without Voldemort, another wizard would rise.
She and Dumbledore were just grateful Voldemort emerged when they were still in their prime.
But even if Voldemort fell for good, the war was far from over.
With internal wizarding conflicts resolved, all eyes would turn to the divide between wizards and Muggles. Grindelwald's opposition to the Statute of Secrecy would resurface.
In fact, she and Dumbledore agreed that Voldemort's chaos was merely an interlude to Grindelwald's fight against the Statute. Without Dumbledore (who first spoke of "the greater good"), there'd be Grindelwald. Without Grindelwald, there'd be someone else.
In this long war, whatever stance wizards took toward Muggles, magical schools—training the next generation of wizarding fighters—would be the wizarding world's last stronghold, just as the four founders built Hogwarts to shield against Muggle witch hunts.
But reality was absurd. Magical schools never saw the Ministry as the wizarding world's final bastion, and the Ministry felt the same about the schools. Each believed they were the true defenders, not the other.
In this tug-of-war, Umbridge—openly pushing to extend Ministry control over Hogwarts—was just a symptom. Too many shared her view.
In some places, it was already reality. The American Magical Congress had subdued Ilvermorny. When Congress bureaucrats traded wizarding rights for political gain with Muggles, Ilvermorny could no longer resist.
Hogwarts must never fall to that!
McGonagall sometimes swallowed her fire to keep things from worsening.
Dumbledore's absence now reeked of conspiracy. Until she grasped the full picture, she couldn't act rashly.
It was driving her mad.
Did they think Transfiguration couldn't kill? That it was powerless, useless, because she was Hogwarts' deputy headmistress?
She glared at Scrimgeour, pointing at the carriage. "You owe me an explanation!"
Scrimgeour clearly respected her but stood firm. "I'm sorry, Professor McGonagall, but the carriage ensures we only take Professor Lockhart. Everyone knows he keeps dangerous dark creatures. We can't risk another incident at the Ministry. It'd destroy what little credibility we have."
Ha! The Ministry's credibility?
Did that even exist?
McGonagall wanted to laugh. Her gaze turned icy, ready to retort, when a commotion erupted from the carriage.
Pushing past Scrimgeour, she strode forward, barely containing herself as she saw Lockhart, mid-step into the carriage, dissolve into black smoke. The smoke darted through the Aurors' grasp, weaving left and right.
"Don't let him escape!" an Auror shouted, firing a spell that the smoke dodged. It veered toward the watching students, who screamed in panic.
Snape, stone-faced, flicked his wand, deflecting the spell with a sneer at the "idiots."
"You fools!" Scrimgeour roared, grabbing an Auror about to unleash a powerful spell. "It's a Boggart! Can't you tell?"
Well… truth be told, between the Ministry folks and the Hogwarts crowd, few could instantly peg the black smoke as a Boggart in the heat of the moment.
The noisy scene fell deathly silent.
Several Aurors flushed red. The students burst into mocking laughter, sharp and cutting.
Finally, the Boggart zoomed toward Scrimgeour.
As the head of the Aurors and a Ministry bigwig, Scrimgeour dreaded facing a Boggart in public. Letting everyone see his deepest fear? He'd rather die.
But he had to stop it—things were chaotic enough.
Just then, a hand reached out from beside him, catching the Boggart.
Scrimgeour spun around to see Lockhart.
"No, no, you're not coming with me to the Ministry. Be good now…" Lockhart coaxed the Boggart, turning it into a fluffy, goofy puppy—the embodiment of Scrimgeour's worst fear.
Scrimgeour, who'd been ready to scold and arrest the Boggart for "obstructing justice," froze, silent.
This was a threat. A silent, vile, terrifying threat.
He could only watch as Lockhart handed the puppy to a disgusted Snape, then leisurely adjusted his robes and sauntered past the Aurors into the carriage.
"Come on, lads, let's move!" Lockhart called from inside, hurrying the Aurors along.
Many Aurors' faces soured.
Scrimgeour glanced at the Hogwarts students, a grim thought hitting him: the Ministry might not recruit a single Auror from Hogwarts for the next seven years. Who'd join such an embarrassing department? They'd be the laughingstock of their classmates.
Damn it!
Whoosh! Whoosh!
Aurors on broomsticks streaked through the sky.
The Thestrals flapped their wings, pulling the carriage into the clouds.
Hogwarts, nestled in Scotland's northern highlands, was hundreds of kilometers from the Ministry's underground London headquarters.
"Why are we using this ridiculous contraption?" Lockhart grumbled, slouched by the carriage window. He tried to enjoy the view but saw only clouds. Bored, he complained, "Apparition would've had us at the Ministry in seconds."
"Sorry, no can do," Scrimgeour said, eyeing him warily. Only he and Kingsley held wands in the carriage, keeping watch. "This carriage ensures it's just you. If your dark creatures showed up at the Ministry and wrecked everything, Fudge would have my head."
Lockhart nodded, conceding the point. "Fair enough. You lot couldn't even handle a Boggart."
Scrimgeour nearly lost it.
Kingsley, beside him, struggled to stifle a laugh.
Kingsley didn't believe Lockhart killed Vincent Bulstrode. Few earned Dumbledore's trust, and Kingsley trusted Dumbledore's judgment.
Using this slow, secure transport made sense to him—it bought time for the Order of the Phoenix to investigate and for Dumbledore to show up.
"Stop staring at me," Lockhart said, exasperated by Scrimgeour's tension. He nodded at Kingsley. "My wand's with him. You don't think I can cast wandless magic, do you?"
"Who knows!" Scrimgeour didn't let up. "Based on those dozen bestselling books of yours, your skill's supposedly above McGonagall's, just shy of Dumbledore's."
What? What?
(⊙_⊙)?
Lockhart blinked, realizing just how absurdly his predecessor had built up his image.
Reflecting on those books, he saw it: the "magical master" persona, inflated like a balloon with each tale.
No wonder real wizards never respected the man. It was blatant fraud.
"This image is just… ugh," Lockhart muttered. "Scrimgeour, you don't get it. It's literary flair. We spice up stories to draw readers in. As long as the magical knowledge in my books is accurate, a bit of embellishment is normal. Lots of authors do it."
He casually cited examples from magical masters' works used in schools worldwide, pointing out specific pages and chapters with similar tactics.
It's perfectly normal.
Is a little exaggeration a lie?
"No?" Scrimgeour shot back with a cold smirk. "If you're not a magical master, who's to say the spells in your books are accurate? If parts are made up or exaggerated, how many spells actually work as described? Magic's not a game—misjudge a spell's power, and people could die!"
Lockhart caught the shift. Scrimgeour was steering the conversation.
He grinned, not one for beating around the bush. "So, you're investigating me as a suspect? Let me guess—Corban Yaxley tipped off the Auror Office?"
Scrimgeour paused. "Not him."
Huh. Yaxley was clever, covering his tracks even here. Lockhart clicked his tongue.
Kingsley's expression flickered. He pressed a button on the carriage, and a pinkish-purple glow, like a transparent bubble, muffled their voices. Covering his mouth, he whispered to Scrimgeour, "The tip came from Ferdinand, who's linked to Yaxley. Sixteen years ago, Yaxley secretly bailed him out of an Azkaban sentence."
Scrimgeour's eyes narrowed, nodding as he filed the information away.
He wasn't a fool. This investigation might be a legitimate case, but it could also be political maneuvering. He had no interest in being someone's pawn—especially not for free.
And the timing? A student's murder at Hogwarts, pointing to Lockhart, right after this investigation? Too convenient.
It felt orchestrated.
Kingsley continued, "We know Yaxley's likely a Death Eater. With rumors of You-Know-Who's return, and Lockhart being Dumbledore's pick, placed in the Ministry's Beast Division, we need to watch for anyone meddling in this."
Scrimgeour's face darkened, the weight of a political maelstrom sinking in.
He wasn't Team Dumbledore's "pro-Muggle" camp, nor Team Voldemort's "pure-blood supremacy." He could work under either if they ran the Ministry.
If Voldemort wasn't such a terrorizing villain, Scrimgeour might lean his way. Voldemort's vision of centralized Ministry power aligned with his own ideals—consolidating authority over Hogwarts, the Sacred Twenty-Eight, and other factions.
No, no—too dangerous to think about.
Scrimgeour frowned, wondering if he'd already been dragged into the war between these titans.
He glanced at the lounging Lockhart and muttered to Kingsley, "When we reach the Ministry, you're in charge of watching him. You're the steadiest. Keep an eye out for anyone trying to pull strings. Don't let the Auror Office get dragged into this mess, got it?"
Kingsley nodded.
As they started to discuss more, a violent jolt shook the carriage.
"Damn it!" Scrimgeour cursed, peering out the window. "What are my men doing, flying us into turbulence?"
Before he could see clearly, a magical beam shot through the clouds, slicing half a Thestral's body. Blood sprayed, sizzling against the carriage, making it creak.
"Enemy attack!" the Aurors shouted.
The team split—one group tightened around the carriage, the other sped toward the source of the attack.
Boom!
The blood on the carriage bubbled, forming a thick arm that slammed the roof. More arms sprouted—eight in total, pounding like a spider trying to crack open a shell.
"Everyone, save Professor Lockhart!" voices shouted from the clouds, spells flashing.
Scrimgeour snapped his gaze to Lockhart.
But Lockhart just laughed, beaming. "Here it is—the change I've been waiting for. Haha!"
He looked at Scrimgeour. "Yaxley suggested this stupid carriage, didn't he? I didn't guess wrong this time, did I?"
Scrimgeour's face grew grim.
Kingsley subtly nodded to Lockhart, confirming it.
"Gotcha," Lockhart said, stretching. "Time to get to work!"
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