Arthur nodded in satisfaction.
"Make sure you count all his past screw-ups too," he told Lucius. "Like last year's Ministry break-in, and the Dementor attack on Hogwarts students."
He paused, then added with a lazy wave, "Basically—anything that hurts his reputation, pile it on."
"If you're not sure how to spin it… go ask Rita Skeeter."
Lucius quickly nodded, wiping sweat from his forehead.
He finally understood what this really was.
Arthur wasn't trying to "teach Fudge a lesson."
Arthur was trying to end him.
And for a man addicted to power like Fudge, getting kicked out of the Minister's chair was worse than dying.
Lucius glanced at Draco beside him and felt an odd, uneasy thought surface—
between Arthur and the Malfoys… who was the real Slytherin here?
Dumbledore stepped in, frowning slightly.
"This… isn't ideal. The Ministry still needs leadership."
Arthur shrugged. "Then put someone else in the seat."
Dumbledore shook his head with a small smile. "It's not that simple. Not just anyone can run the Ministry."
He wasn't defending Fudge out of affection.
He cared about one thing only:
the Ministry's stability.
Fudge might have been cowardly and useless during crises, but in normal administration he did keep the machine running.
Arthur didn't respond immediately.
He just looked at Dumbledore—silent, steady.
And Dumbledore suddenly felt a cold suspicion.
"You're not… thinking of pushing me into that position, are you?"
Arthur nodded.
Dumbledore waved both hands like he was physically fending the idea off.
"Absolutely not. Spare my old bones. I have no interest in that seat."
Minister wasn't some ceremonial crown.
It was seven major departments, endless documents, endless decisions, endless political rot.
Dumbledore wasn't stupid.
Arthur clicked his tongue. "It's only temporary. A few years. Once Hermione graduates, you retire."
For Arthur, the interim didn't matter.
Whoever sat in the chair for a short period was just keeping it warm for Hermione.
If Dumbledore refused, Arthur could always shove Lucius or even Lockhart into it as a placeholder.
Dumbledore shook his head.
"You're oversimplifying. Even if I agree, Hermione can't just graduate and become Minister the next day."
"She'll need time to build influence, connections, support. That takes years."
Then he added bluntly, "And I'm not sitting in that chair for years."
Arthur rolled his eyes.
"No—you're overcomplicating it."
He pointed toward the bound heap of Voldemort and his Death Eaters.
"Do you realize what happened tonight? Hermione just earned more fame and authority in one night than most people manage in a lifetime."
And he wasn't wrong.
Rita had already been building Hermione's "genius witch" legend for years.
Now she'd won the Triwizard Tournament…
and—more importantly—she'd solo'd Voldemort and his Death Eaters in full public view.
With enough media push, Hermione's prestige could rival Dumbledore's, maybe even surpass it.
Because Dumbledore was old and distant.
Hermione was young, dazzling, and terrifyingly competent.
Dumbledore went quiet, overwhelmed.
Tonight had hit him like a runaway train.
He even had the absurd thought that he might need to dump some memories into the Pensieve just to breathe properly again.
And the biggest shock of all?
Voldemort had been captured.
Which raised an uncomfortable question:
So… what exactly had the prophecy been about?
Had Trelawney fooled him?
Was Harry really the "only one"?
Or had the entire interpretation been wrong?
He was still spiraling when Arthur's voice yanked him back.
Dumbledore blinked. "Sorry—what did you say?"
Arthur repeated calmly, "I said: what are we doing with the Dark Lord?"
Dumbledore hesitated, then said, "Let me speak to him first."
Arthur snapped his fingers, removing Voldemort's restriction to speak, then gestured politely.
"Be my guest."
Dumbledore stepped forward. "Tom—"
Voldemort cut him off instantly.
"Tom is dead! There is only Voldemort!"
Arthur muttered beside them, just loud enough for everyone to hear, "Actually Voldemort's gone too. What we have is a new magical creature: the Pig-Nosed Snake."
A few scattered laughs went around—thin, nervous, but real.
Even Snape's lips twitched.
Voldemort's head snapped toward him.
"Severus! You ignored my call—and you dare laugh at me?!"
Then his gaze whipped to Lucius.
"And you, Lucius! You betrayed me!"
Voldemort clenched his will—
and the Dark Mark flared.
Lucius instantly grabbed his left arm and screamed.
The mark turned from black to red, burning like molten iron beneath his skin.
Voldemort smiled, enjoying it… until he noticed something.
Snape stood perfectly calm.
No pain.
No reaction.
Voldemort stared, confused.
"Why aren't you suffering?"
Snape slowly lifted his sleeve.
His forearm was pale and clean—no mark at all.
Then he said, flat as ice:
"Sorry. I'm an undercover agent."
Nobody knew why he phrased it like that.
But Snape clearly thought it sounded cool.
Voldemort's eyes widened.
"No… impossible! You can't remove my Dark Mark. I don't believe it!"
Arthur snorted. "There's a lot you don't believe. Like the fact you just got beaten by a fourth-year witch."
Voldemort's face tightened. He had no comeback.
Draco stepped forward, tense.
"Arthur… can you remove it from my father too?"
Arthur pointed toward Voldemort, smiling without warmth.
"Easiest way? Kill him. All his marks will dissolve automatically."
Voldemort went rigid.
He stared at Arthur like he'd only just realized what kind of person he was dealing with.
Then Draco, with frightening sincerity, asked:
"Can I kill him?"
Voldemort's heart nearly stopped.
He looked at Dumbledore desperately—expecting intervention.
Expecting outrage.
Expecting something.
But Dumbledore didn't move.
And that terrified Voldemort more than anything else.
Because if Arthur nodded…
Draco might actually do it.
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