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After the ceremony, Dumbledore was quickly surrounded.
Griselda Marchbanks, Tiberius Ogden, and several other old acquaintances seemed determined not to let him escape so easily. Years of neglected Wizengamot work had clearly left many people with opinions.
A great many opinions.
Dumbledore looked toward Dudley with the expression of a man hoping for a convenient excuse.
Dudley pretended not to understand.
"Professor, you should have a proper conversation with your old friends."
"I had thought to escort you back."
"No need. I know the way."
"The Ministry can be troublesome."
"Fawkes likes me."
The phoenix, who had been perched nearby, gave a soft cry as though confirming the statement.
Dumbledore's smile became a little helpless.
"Very well. Be careful."
"Always."
Dudley left the Wizengamot Administration Services alone.
On the way out, he thought about Sirius Black.
The case had not been settled immediately, even though Peter Pettigrew was already exposed and the truth was no longer difficult to prove. Fudge was still dragging things out.
Not because he wanted justice.
Because he wanted credit.
The Minister for Magic needed a public victory. He wanted to appear wise, decisive, and powerful. Rehabilitating Sirius Black after personally controlling the process was worth far more than quietly admitting a mistake.
The amusing part was that Dudley had helped push him in that direction.
Sirius was troublesome.
Leaving him locked away a little longer had not seemed like a terrible thing.
Of course, Dudley would never say that in front of Harry.
The Atrium was still busy when he returned. Ministry workers glanced at him, then at the robe folded over his arm, and quickly looked away.
He walked out through the visitor exit and returned to London.
In a quiet corner, Dudley changed his appearance.
The young Wizengamot member disappeared.
In his place stood a different figure.
A brown top hat.
A neat suit.
A suitcase in hand.
The face was not Dudley Dursley's.
It belonged to Gargamel.
Years ago, he had used this identity to trade with Squibs who survived in the cracks between the wizarding and Muggle worlds. Back then, he had needed potion ingredients, money channels, and information.
Now he needed something else.
People.
Dudley hired a car and gave the driver an address.
The streets outside the window changed from polished Ministry-adjacent London to older, narrower roads. Buildings pressed closer together. The air smelled dirtier. The people on the pavement looked as though life had taught them not to stare too long at anything strange.
Eventually, the car stopped near a familiar alley.
Dudley paid and walked the rest of the way.
The suitcase felt light in his hand.
Gold no longer felt heavy to him.
Responsibility was.
He stopped before a familiar door.
The paint was still peeling. The wall beside it still carried old stains. Nothing about the place suggested importance.
That was why it worked.
Dudley raised his hand and knocked.
After a while, a small panel opened in the middle of the door.
A pair of eyes appeared behind it.
Just like several years ago.
"Password."
Dudley smiled.
"Magic."
The panel closed.
Locks clicked from the inside.
The door opened.
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