Hagrid's Hut
Rain was still hammering the windows. Hagrid poked at the fire and muttered, "That thunder tonight was somethin' else… never heard anythin' like it before…"
Knock knock knock.
Someone pounded on the door. Hagrid lumbered over, shouting, "Who is it?"
"It's me, Hagrid."
Dumbledore's voice. Hagrid yanked the door open with a big grin that died the second he saw who was standing next to the Headmaster.
Short, plump, pin-striped suit, loud red tie, purple pointed boots, dripping wet bowler hat now tucked under one arm.
"Cornelius Fudge?"
Hagrid's jaw dropped. The Minister for Magic himself, showing up in this weather?
He ducked a little to peer past them and spotted a whole squad of Aurors lined up among the cabbages. His stomach sank like a stone.
"Evenin', Hagrid," Fudge said briskly.
Hagrid stepped aside on instinct, retreated, and collapsed onto his creaky bench with a thud that made the whole hut shake. He looked back and forth between Dumbledore and the Minister, face draining of color.
"I'm sorry, Hagrid," Fudge plowed on, talking fast like he wanted to get this over with. "The Ministry has to be seen doing something. These attacks at Hogwarts are completely unacceptable!"
Here it was again. The Chamber.
Fifty years ago they'd blamed him. Fifty years ago a girl had died. They'd snapped his wand and kicked him out for "opening the Chamber and releasing the monster."
"No—no, I never—Professor Dumbledore, you know I didn't—" Hagrid's voice cracked, pleading.
"Cornelius," Dumbledore cut in, and for once the usual warmth was gone from his voice; it was hard, almost cold. "I will say it again: Hagrid is not the Heir of Slytherin. I trust him completely."
He was so close this time—so close to proving Hagrid's innocence once and for all.
Fudge mopped his forehead with a handkerchief (rain or sweat, hard to tell). He hated being here, on Dumbledore's turf, in the middle of the night. But the pressure… Merlin, the pressure.
The earlier attacks had been on Muggle-born students. Tragic, yes, but those families didn't have much pull.
Then Blaise Zabini—a pure-blood—got petrified.
That very night Fudge's office had been buried under a blizzard of Howlers and furiously scribbled letters from old-money parents. Zabini had recovered quickly thanks to the Mandrake potion, but that hadn't calmed anyone down.
Fudge didn't actually run Hogwarts, but try telling that to the Sacred Twenty-Eight.
And those families happened to control a very large chunk of the Ministry's "voluntary contributions" every year.
If Fudge wanted to keep his job (and, more importantly, the fat First-Class Order of Merlin he planned to award himself when he retired), he needed them happy.
"Albus, I trust you, and I want to trust Hagrid," Fudge said, spreading his hands helplessly. "But not everyone feels the same warmth toward him. I have to give the pure-blood families an answer they can live with."
He knew perfectly well some of those families were using this as an excuse to take shots at Dumbledore himself. The old man wasn't exactly popular in certain drawing rooms.
"Look, Albus, I promise the Ministry will follow every regulation to the letter," Fudge added quickly. He knew Dumbledore respected rules.
He glanced at Hagrid with genuine regret in his eyes. The giant man wasn't subtle enough to run a secret murder plot, but politics didn't care about truth.
"Hagrid's prior record is… unfortunate," Fudge finished lamely. "And the Board of Governors has already been in touch, so this time—"
Dumbledore's blue eyes blazed with rare fury. "Taking Hagrid away will solve nothing, Cornelius."
"T-Take me away? Take me where?" Hagrid's massive frame started shaking.
"Oh, not for long!" Fudge assured him, staring very hard at the floor. "Just temporary. Precautionary. The second we catch the real culprit you'll be released and we'll all apologize profusely—"
He still wouldn't meet Hagrid's eyes.
Hagrid's voice came out small and terrified. "It's… it's not Azkaban, is it?"
Before Fudge could answer, another knock—louder, sharper—rattled the door.
It swung open and a tall, platinum-blond man strode in wearing an absolutely smug smile.
"Lucius Malfoy!" Hagrid roared, fear flipping instantly to rage. "Get out of my house!"
Lucius gave a delicate little cough and covered his mouth with a gloved hand, surveying the hut like he'd stepped in something unpleasant.
"A generous use of the word 'house,'" he drawled. "Believe me, being here is no pleasure."
He turned to Dumbledore with mock surprise. "Oh, Headmaster, fancy finding you here."
Dumbledore looked one heartbeat away from hexing the man into next week. "Lucius. To what do we owe this… visit?"
Lucius's smile widened as he pulled a long roll of parchment from his robes—official, sealed, signed by twelve governors.
"Terrible business, Dumbledore…"
Whoosh—
A burst of crimson flame erupted in the middle of the room.
A bright, babyish phoenix cry rang out, the fire vanished, and there stood a dark-haired boy with striking green eyes, a damp orange-red bird perched on his shoulder.
In his raised hand he held a battered black diary.
"Well," Lucien Grafton said cheerfully, taking in the packed hut, "this is lively."
He looked straight at Dumbledore. "Headmaster, there's something I think you should see."