Chapter 38
The air in Cornelius Fudge’s office was thick with the scent of stale parchment and rising panic. He slammed his fist on the mahogany desk, the sound echoing in the suddenly silent room. “What in Merlin’s name is going on?” he roared, his jowls wobbling with agitation. He’d been pacing for hours, the plush Ministry carpet bearing witness to his frantic strides. Three weeks. Three weeks since any member of the Dark Alliance had graced the Ministry with their presence. Three weeks of unsettling quiet.
A timid knock broke through his spiraling thoughts. “Enter!” he barked, his voice still raw with frustration.
Dolores Umbridge glided into the room, her sickly sweet smile plastered on her face, despite the storm brewing in the Minister’s office. Her pink cardigan and matching kitten plate seemed deliberately out of place amidst the governmental chaos. “Minister,” she chirped, her voice cloying, “you seem…disheveled for some reason.”
Fudge’s glare could have petrified a Basilisk. “Like you don’t know the reason I’m this disheveled, Dolores! The Malfoys, the Blacks, the Lestranges – gone! Vanished from the face of the Ministry ever since that…that…wedding!” He sputtered, unable to even utter the words with any semblance of composure.
Umbridge’s smile tightened just a fraction. “Are you referring to the nuptials of Rabastan Lestrange and his…bride?” she asked, carefully avoiding the word ‘Muggle’.
“Don’t play coy with me, Dolores!” Fudge’s voice rose again. “Rabastan Lestrange and his Muggle bride, Petunia Evans! And that’s not all! Not just them. The Notts, the Goyles, the Averys, the Carrows, the Greengrasses, the Shafiqs! Half of the bloody Grey Factions too! Gone! Missing from every meeting, every vote, every whispered conversation in the corridors. What in the blazes are they up to this time?”
Dolores coughed delicately, as if the very idea was preposterous. “Well, Minister, surely you’re not suggesting…it can’t be because of that Petunia Evans influencing them?” She gave a dismissive wave of her hand, as if Petunia Evans was a particularly bothersome housefly.
Cornelius slammed his desk again, harder this time. “Silence!” he screamed, his face flushing crimson. “It is because of you, Dolores! You’re the one who brought that Muggle into our world! You’re the one who… ‘cured’ her from that disease she supposedly had! You’re the reason I haven’t heard a single peep of complaint, of desperate pleas for help, from her up until now!”
Dolores’ saccharine smile faltered for a fraction of a second, replaced by a flicker of something calculating. “With all due respect, Minister, I simply followed your orders. You wanted a desperate Muggle girl, with no family to speak of, to be the bride of Rabastan Lestrange. St. Mungo's wouldn’t have cured her if I hadn’t authorized it. And frankly, Minister,” she continued, her voice taking on a sharper edge, “if St. Mungo’s hadn't cured her, she likely would have died, and we’d have had to start from square one. We needed her alive to be any use at all.”
Fudge’s face contorted in a mask of apoplectic rage. “Do you think I care if she’s dead or alive?” he shrieked, spitting flecks of saliva. “She was fine when you brought her! Weak, pathetic, predictable! But you just had to cure her illness and ruin everything! She was supposed to come crawling to me for help, begging to be saved from those monsters! But instead, instead… she became buddy-buddy with Bellatrix Lestrange! Bellatrix Lestrange announced to the world, in that cackling, insane voice of hers, that she ‘likes this new sister-in-law’ while laughing like a banshee! Lucius Malfoy, that sly dog, is proclaiming himself Petunia’s ‘bestest best friend’ in the Prophet! And Reinhard Lestrange, oh Reinhard Lestrange, that paragon of blood purity, has practically adopted her as his daughter-in-law!” He resumed pacing, his agitation reaching fever pitch.
Dolores rolled her eyes almost imperceptibly. “You’re exaggerating, Minister. Surely.”
“Exaggerating?” Cornelius screeched, his voice cracking. “Exaggerating? After what that Muggle did at her wedding? Torturing Black and Potter – perfectly acceptable, I’ll admit, a bit of well-deserved public humiliation for those troublemakers – but then… then aiming a knife at my neck! Humiliating me in front of half the wizarding elite! And you call that exaggerating?” He finally sank into his plush chair, deflating like a punctured balloon.
Dolores, ever the pragmatist, adjusted her pink cardigan. “Minister, perhaps you’re looking at this the wrong way. Maybe they’re simply… on holiday. Perhaps they decided to take a break from the Ministry, from… everything.”
Cornelius snorted, a sound devoid of amusement. “Taking a break? Those lot? Ha! The only ‘holiday’ they enjoy is running other people’s lives, Dolores! They’re plotting something, I know it. And that Muggle… she’s right in the middle of it.” He rubbed his temples, a dull ache throbbing behind his eyes. “And the worst part is, Dolores, the absolute worst part… I have no idea what it is.”
“Minister, you are overwrought,” Dolores insisted, her voice like honey laced with poison. “Perhaps you should take a Calming Draught? Or a Pepper-Up Potion? It will clear your head.”
“Pepper-Up Potion!” Fudge roared, leaping back to his feet. “I need answers, Dolores, not Pepper-Up Potion! I want to know what those vipers are plotting! I want to know why they are ignoring the Ministry! And I want to know… what that Muggle is doing!”
Dolores tapped a perfectly manicured finger against her chin, feigning thoughtfulness. “Well, Minister… why not seek out Albus Dumbledore? I’m quite sure he would know if anything… amiss… was occurring in the wizarding world.”
Fudge’s eyes lit up, the suggestion sparking like a damp firework. “Yes! Yes, you’re right! Dumbledore might know something about those snakes!” He practically propelled himself towards the fireplace, grabbing a handful of Floo powder. “Hogwarts!” he bellowed, throwing the powder into the flames and stepping into the emerald fire before Dolores could blink.
Dolores, left alone in the suddenly silent office, just mumbled, “Poor Cornelius. To think that a Muggle could unravel him so completely.” A small chuckle escaped her lips. “Looks like I made the right choice, choosing you, Petunia.” A satisfied smile stretched across her face. “However… I wonder if Dumbledore will be affected at all by this… development. Oh well, it doesn't matter. I'll just enjoy the show.” She left the office, her pink heels clicking softly on the polished floor.
Meanwhile, at Hogwarts, Albus Dumbledore sat at his desk, surrounded by silver instruments that spun and whirred, each meticulously recording the subtle shifts in the magical atmosphere. He looked up as Cornelius Fudge stepped out of the Floo in a cloud of green smoke, his face still flushed and agitated.
Dumbledore, looking up from a mountain of parchment, greeted him with a weary sigh. “Ah, Cornelius. To what do I owe the pleasure?”
“It’s a disaster, Albus, utter chaos!” Fudge exclaimed, his voice still strained with panic. “The Dark Families… they haven’t shown up at the Ministry for three weeks!”
Dumbledore raised a knowing eyebrow. “Let me guess… is this about the new Madam Lestrange?” He rubbed his temples, as if fighting a burgeoning headache. “How could a Muggle cause such a… ruckus in our world?”
Fudge’s eyes widened. “So you do know something is brewing, don’t you, Dumbledore?”
Dumbledore sighed again, heavily. “Partly. I have already… encountered Madam Lestrange.” He shuddered almost imperceptibly. “I attempted to offer her… a way out… of that dreadful family. And all I received was humiliation and belittling… from a mere Muggle! She’s an abomination, Cornelius, an utter abomination.” His voice was tinged with genuine anger, a rare sight.
Cornelius, momentarily distracted from his own panic by Dumbledore’s unusual outburst, asked, “You did? Is she here? In Hogwarts?” He glanced around Dumbledore’s cluttered office, as if expecting Petunia to materialize from behind a bookshelf.
Dumbledore shook his head, his beard swaying gently. “No. She refused my… assistance. After threatening Frank Longbottom’s life, I might add. And then… then she challenged me to use my magic against her. Imagine, Cornelius! A Muggle challenging Albus Dumbledore to a duel!” He scoffed, but there was a tremor of unease in his voice. “The Death Eaters… they’ve changed. They seemed… lighter, almost… accepting of her when I first met her at the Lestrange manner. Reinhard Lestrange, who wouldn’t hesitate to curse a Muggle for breathing the same air, accepted her. Even Severus… Snape seemed less venomous, dare I say, even… joyful, after learning about Black and Potter being ‘manhandled’ by Petunia Lestrange. It’s sickening to the core!”
Cornelius sank into a chair, feeling utterly defeated. “But… but it doesn’t make any sense! Why would the entire blasted Dark Alliance, and half the Grey Faction, suddenly stop coming to the Ministry? They're brewing something, Dumbledore, I'm telling you.”
Dumbledore steepled his fingers under his chin, his blue eyes thoughtful. “Indeed, they are brewing something. Something big, I suspect. I have already sent a team to investigate. It turns out they are all at Malfoy Manor. Under the pretext of a… tea party… to ‘forge an alliance’ with the new Madam Lestrange. And they haven't left the Manor yet.” He frowned, a new piece of information clearly troubling him. “There were also reports… rather peculiar reports, that the purebloods have been… burning furniture. Wallpaper. For some unknown reason.”
Just then, a tawny owl swooped through the window, dropping a thick envelope onto Dumbledore’s desk. Dumbledore recognized the Ministry seal and the hurried, spiky handwriting of Alastor “Mad-Eye” Moody. He opened the letter, his usual calm demeanor cracking slightly as he scanned the words. Then his eyes fell on a photograph tucked inside.
He stared at the picture for a long moment, his face paling beneath his beard. Then, in a voice that was low and dangerous, a voice Cornelius had never heard before, Dumbledore screamed, “WHAT IN MERLIN’S FRESH HELL IS THIS?!”
For the first time, Cornelius saw the ugly side of Albus Dumbledore, the side usually hidden beneath layers of grandfatherly wisdom and twinkling eyes. Dumbledore’s face was contorted with rage, his blue eyes narrowed and cold.
“What’s happening? What does the letter say?” Cornelius asked, his voice trembling.
Dumbledore thrust a photograph at him, his hand shaking. In the picture, Petunia Lestrange sat at a beautifully set table in what Cornelius recognized as the Malfoy Manor gardens. She was laughing, a genuine, carefree laugh, and around her were Narcissa Malfoy, Claire Greengrass, and Yara Parkinson – the matriarchs of some of the oldest and most powerful pureblood families. They too, were smiling, relaxed, and completely at ease. It was a scene of domestic tranquility, utterly at odds with everything Cornelius knew about these families.
“This… this is a jest, right?” Cornelius stammered, but a cold dread was creeping into his bones. He could feel, instinctively, that this was no joke.
Dumbledore was trembling with barely suppressed fury. “A mere Muggle… is sitting amongst the high-ranking pureblood women! How did it come to this?!” He slammed his fist on his desk, echoing Fudge’s earlier outburst.
Cornelius looked at Dumbledore, his own panic rekindled, amplified now by the Headmaster’s palpable rage. “Dumbledore… what should we do?”
Then, a chillingly calculating glint entered Dumbledore’s blue eyes. An idea, dark and manipulative, had taken root. He picked up the photograph, a cruel smile spreading across his face. “Don’t worry, Minister. I know exactly what we should do with this.” He summoned a Hogwarts school owl, folded the photograph and the letter, and scribbled a hasty note on the parchment. “Make sure Rita Skeeter receives this letter,” he instructed the owl, his voice dangerously sweet. The owl hooted softly and flew out the window.
“Rita Skeeter,” Fudge repeated, a slow, delighted grin spreading across his face. “Brilliant, Albus! Utterly brilliant! Imagine the scandal – the pureblood elite fawning over a Muggle! The public will demand action!”
Dumbledore chuckled, a low, self-satisfied sound. “Indeed, Cornelius. The righteous indignation of the wizarding world will be a powerful weapon. We shall present ourselves as the guardians of tradition, the upholders of magical purity, rescuing them from this… this Muggle charlatan who has somehow ensnared them.”
Down in the dungeons of Hogwarts, a house-elf popped in with a tray of biscuits. Dumbledore waved it away dismissively. “No time for biscuits, Cornelius. Time for action. I shall ensure Rita receives the… evidence swiftly. By week’s end, the Daily Prophet will be alight with the story.”
Fudge puffed out his chest, feeling a surge of misplaced confidence. “And then, Albus, then we’ll see who’s laughing. The Dark families will be exposed, weakened, and that Muggle… well, the Ministry will handle her. Perhaps a discreet accident? Or a quiet oblivation? We’ll decide.”
Dumbledore smiled thinly. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves, Cornelius. One step at a time. Let the public outrage pave the way. We shall be seen as the saviors, the ones who bravely stand up to this… unconventional alliance.” He took a sip of his tea, his gaze distant and self-absorbed. “Unconventional indeed.”
Dumbledore, still chuckling, offered Cornelius a cup of tea, which he happily accepted, completely unaware that Petunia Lestrange, the “mere Muggle” they so readily dismissed, was about to flip the tables on them in a way they couldn’t even begin to comprehend. Unseen, unheard, Dolores Umbridge, still in the Ministry, smiled, a genuine, pleased smile, as she imagined the chaos Rita Skeeter was about to unleash, and the even greater chaos that would inevitably follow. The show, as she had predicted, was just about to begin.