World Cup
It was a strange experience in many ways.
In a way, sitting beside his father reminded him of when he had been a little boy, sitting next to his parents and watching the Quidditch World Cup in 1966, watching with awe on his face as Britain thrashed France 760-190. It had been the last time Britain had won the Quidditch World Cup, although given the events of the following decades, there was little surprise that there had not been a sequel to the victory.
But sitting beside his father, all Barty could think about was two things - how nostalgic it was to be there in that moment, and how close he was to being discovered.
He was sat next to his father, who was under the Imperius curse in the presence of not only the Minister of Magic, but also Amelia Bones and Sirius Black, all with Barty just an arm's reach away from Harry Potter himself. If he was fast, he would doubtless be able to grab the boy and utilise the emergency portkey that his Master had given him. Indeed, he'd much rather do that than the task he had been given, but that was out of the question. The Dark Lord, for his many strengths and abilities, for all his cunning, was a vain man. He wanted to strip Potter of his laurels in the moment of glory.
It was half the reason Barty was going to Hogwarts.
The other reason they simply could not snatch Potter in this moment was the fact that the ritual that the Dark Lord was to use to regain his body required a brewed potion that would take months to prepare, and one that would not be usable until Lithia, the date of the final task of the Triwizard Tournament. Holding him for nearly a full year would not only put the Aurors on high alert, but it could collapse the entire scheme before the Dark Lord was able to return to his full power.
It would be a sure-fire way to unite the entirety of Wizarding Britain - against them.
And so, Barty simply sat there, in the chair that was empty to everyone else, watching the Quidditch game as Ireland ran rings around Bulgaria. He almost scoffed - Ireland was by far the better team, Bulgaria had little hope and their players were seemingly chosen for their ability to disrupt play long enough for their Seeker to catch the Snitch. Viktor Krum was, admittedly, an incredible seeker, but there was a reason that teams were scarcely built around Seekers, and it was on full display.
Ireland would win, of that there was little doubt. Barty had played as a chaser, he could see that Ireland's synergy was something to behold, whereas Bulgaria was playing like Slytherin of his school years on a bad day - three men who all seemed to be vying for the dominant position in the formation, resulting in a total lack of teamwork. He could have played better than all three of them combined, and he had languished for years in Azkaban and House Arrest.
He couldn't fault Krum for ending the game when he did - Ireland scored four goals in under a minute, putting them 160 points ahead of Bulgaria, and that lead would doubtless only have increased, had Krum not caught the snitch. It had been a new record, apparently, for a World Cup. It had all been over in two hours, making it the shortest game in World Cup History, after the 1922 game where the Snitch was caught before the goal keepers even had time to ascend to their hoops.
But the real event of the evening was about to begin.
Yaxley had quietly passed on a message from Lucius - an offer to take part in a little… get together designed too remind Britain that the Death Eaters were hardly a dead and buried organisation. There would be thirty-seven taking part - a powerful number, the twelfth prime, and chosen because of it. Seven would be the old guard, another strong number, former Death Eaters who had escaped Azkaban, and wished to show their Lord that they did not forget the old ways.
Yaxley had turned them down, but he had told Barty - and he, the Dark Lord. His instructions had been clear.
If they wished to prove their loyalty, Barty would provide them the lighthouse by which to guide themselves back to his service.
Once they had returned to their tent, Barty had sent his father back into the care of Wormtail, then glanced down at his watch - he had once more returned to the elegant, tailored suits of his former wardrobe before his incarceration, and was certainly enjoying it. Other wizards may have preferred robes, but the Crouch family always tended to favour smart, formal suits with waistcoats and jackets. It may have reeked of Muggle influence, and some had made fun of him for it back in the day, but it was one thing that he was grateful had been passed down to him.
Nine thirty, any moment now Lucius will start up his little.. Trip down memory lane.
"Winky, bring me two fingers of the Macallan 1826." A soft pop sang out in the tent a heartbeat later, and Barty found the small table next to the tent flap adorned with a tumbler of the amber liquid, which he swiftly plucked into his left hand. A small sip later, and the biting nerves slowly began to drift away as the most expensive Firewhisky this side of the Atlantic slid down his throat, filling him with a warm glow of courage.
He could hear the chaos beginning outside, the first screams of terror over the drunken cheers of the Ireland fans, quickly drowned out by the roars of the jeering crowd. Doubtless some would consider it a brawl, at least at first. Then the screams grew to a new height, these ones were female, utterly agonised and audibly at the very edge of the woman's vocal capabilities. A slightly pinched expression came over him - the Cruciatus curse was never his favourite to cast, nor be party to. Something about the screaming just... Threw him off.
That was why he had let Bella and the Lestranges cast it - that and his desire to keep his hands clean of any blame in regard to being thrown in prison for the torture of the Longbottoms. Not that it did him any good, in the long run.
A snort of morbid amusement was washed down by a sip of the Firewhisky, and the courage grew to new heights within him - the sort of levels he had not felt in years. He felt invincible, but he was hardly stupid enough to believe that he was - he had been a Ravenclaw, not some idiotic Gryffindor.
A sudden roar of flames surged past his tent, and Barty felt a brief moment of hesitation, before he downed what remained of the Firewhisky and stepped outside the tent, drawing his wand as he did so - and it was smart that he had done so. Barely had he poked his head out, before he flicked his wand arm up and summoned forth his willpower, pummelling down the rogue Fiendfyre's pseudo consciousness, and instead directing it elsewhere, across a row of tents reserved for Ministry Employees. He held his will over it for a handful of seconds, before releasing it and turning his gaze back the way it had come from.
At least a tenth of the tents had already been destroyed - and it was a sheer miracle that these bumbling lunatics had taken this long to arouse suspicion. Doubtless, the Ministry would reel for several seconds before they would come down like a house of cards on these morons playing dress up. Their intentions may have been in the right place, but it would do far more harm than good to allow them to be captured.
Let's get them home, and make the Ministry fear again..
Pointing his wand skywards, Barty couldn't help the lip biting glee that spilled a demented smile onto his face as he roared the spell that had terrified Magical Britain for a decade, and would torment them for the decades to come. "MORSMORDRE!"
The flash of green light shot skywards, and seemed to hang in the air for a second or two longer than necessary - and that brought the grin just a little wider. The first time he had the honour of casting his Lord's mark, he had thought he had failed it - even though he had met the criteria of bearing the Dark Mark, and having a drive to cause nought but terror and dread on his mind. But just as it had then, the spell exploded into a dazzling ball of green light.
The twinkling emerald, green explosion morphed into what looked like blazing stars in the shape of a skull - and barely a heartbeat later, that terrible ethereal wail crashed through the air, but did nothing else other than send euphoria crashing through Barty's skull, as a chorus of terrified screams rose up in response. The Serpent burst forth from the mouth of the Dark Mark, coiling and rolling, claiming the skies above the Quidditch World Cup as its own, and reminding everyone below of the simple fact.
The Dark Lord was not to be forgotten so easily.
A quick glance at the party of uninitiated Death Eaters gave him proof enough that many were cowards - and he couldn't blame the unmarked. They watched as five of the seven true Death Eaters apparated away without a second though, and many followed the lead set by the cowards. But a small handful stayed, and followed two of the party towards him - doubtless they had seen him cast the mark, and they knew it could only be one of their own who had done so.
"What have you done!?" At the horrified outcry, Barty wheeled around and took in the sight of the two men in Auror robes - and that was enough for him. One was going for his wand, whilst the other was staring at the Dark Mark in the horror that Barty relished - he would be no threat.
The man drawing his wand received a slash of Barty's own - and the non-verbal incantation that Dolohov had taught him all those years ago, a simple instruction. The man had stipulated it was to always be cast nonverbally, lest it fall into the hands of their enemies, and a counter curse be engineered. Burn.
Dolohov's curse was always brutally effective, and the purple flame hit the man dead in the chest - barely giving him time to scream in unrefined and pure agony as the purple flames roared out of his eyes and mouth, burning his insides to ash as Barty flicked his wand to the horrified Auror, almost casually uttering the phrase the man doubtless dreaded to hear. "Avada Kedavra!"
A flash of green light and the man collapsed like a puppet with his strings cut - it had taken only three seconds for him to kill both men. A sigh left him as he reached into his breast pocket and withdrew a teaspoon, turning to face the pair of Death Eaters almost identical in build and posture, followed by a quintet of Wizards in robes so plain they had to be new initiates. A humourless greeting left him as he regarded the two whom acted so similar, he could place anywhere. "Amycus, Alecto. I see you're reliving the good times."
The one on the left, with gold accents under the eyes of the face mask that denoted him as Amycus, nodded his head at Barty. "I thought you were dead."
"Oh, well... Sentimentality was the bane of Father's existence. I see only you and a brave few answer the Dark Lord's call." Both Amycus and Alecto glanced at each other, and the female twin - the accents under her eyes streaks of silver - posed a hushed, almost reverent question.
"He's really back?" Barty tilted his head from side to side, before nodding.
"Mostly. Being dead has its toll. He's not far off returning to power fully. Will you answer the call once again?" Offering his hand to the group, barely had Barty spoken before the twins grabbed his outstretched hands, before locking hands with the unmarked recruits. Glancing over his shoulder, he gave a sigh as he regarded the burning campground and stadium one last time. Off in the distance, the noise of crushing and crumbling wood heralded part of the wooden stand of the stadium collapsing.
"Why did it have to be such a shitty game.." Sighing, he flicked his wand towards the tent he had come out of, uttering the same curse that had nearly killed him earlier. "Pestis Incendium."
As the Fiendfyre leapt from his wand, a blazing Raven cawing in infernal hunger, Barty tucked his wand away and clutched the small teaspoon, giving a soft sigh under his breath. It really was a shame he had other obligations tonight. Murmuring under his breath, he uttered the simple phrase. "Return."
With a tugging on his navel, he and the seven others vanished with little more than a small pop as the Fiendfyre he had cast consumed the Ministry tent in a matter of moments, growing larger and larger as it broke free of the weak grasp he had left on it.
Amelia Bones had been enjoying the World Cup, although that left a lot unsaid.
She had been a Beater for the Hufflepuff team, as had Edgar and Elsie, and they had held that position on the legendary Hufflepuff team of '61-'67, which had featured the Bones Triplets, Amos Diggory as seeker, Emmeline Vance and Ted Tonks as the Beaters - they never did have much luck with the Keeper slot. Together, they had won every Quidditch cup in the years they had been at school together - to the point that they had collectively made half of the Slytherin team hang up their brooms by their fifth year.
Ted's heart may not have really been in the game, it was more in the team, but that didn't stop him from absolutely belting bludgers at anyone they played. Emmeline really had been a bit of a sleeper pick - no one thought much of the polite and cordial witch at first, but she had proven herself damn near deadly accurate with a Beater's bat, and it had showed in the Witch’s later work as a DMLE Hit Witch during the war.
What a shame Amelia had lost her to Dumbledore's little vigilante group, but she could at the very least respect that the woman didn't want to go on killing her fellow Witches and Wizards any longer.
Diggory had always been a bit of a showboat, so there was not much surprise when he joined the Ministry - but going into the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures was a bit of an underwhelming position for a man who could have gone on to be the best Seeker to come from the British Isles in the last century. Of course, he had been almost immediately overshadowed by James Potter, but that was a different kettle of kelpies all together.
All of which was a long-winded way of saying that Amelia Bones knew good Quidditch when she saw it.
And god was some of the stuff being played today pretty appalling. She had watched with unmitigated disappointment as Bulgaria did little more than allow Ireland to totally walk over their team - the Beaters couldn't get control of the bludgers, which let Connolly and Quigley shift entirely onto the offensive, hammering both bludgers at Krum in a near constant stream. They had doubtless recognised that Krum was the only real threat on the Bulgarian team, and had focused their efforts on keeping him preoccupied as long as possible.
As depressing as it was to say about a national team, their utter dismissal of Bulgaria had been entirely warranted. In the time that Ireland scored 170 points, Bulgaria's Chasers had managed to get control of the quaffle four times, and only one of those resulted in a goal. Krum had been right to catch the snitch, in her eyes. It spared his team from utter humiliation beyond what they were experiencing.
She had almost been about to remark to the nearby Amos that they should have gotten the team together again to give Ireland an actual game that night, before she had caught herself on the fact that neither of her siblings would be capable of competing. Edgar had been gone over a decade, and the Elise who had enjoyed Quidditch had died with her husband back in '86.
A strangely fond smile graced her lips then - just for a moment, she had allowed herself to relive her glory days as a Quidditch champion.
Naturally, the world wasn't going to allow Madame Bones to enjoy the first evening truly free of work that she had taken in a decade.
Camped as she was in the Ministry Employee area, Amelia Bones had her tent enchanted and warded to a far higher degree than most other tents, given her status as Director of the DMLE. Typically, she wouldn't have even stayed the night - she could quite easily have apparated her and Susan back to Bones Manor by herself that evening, but Susan had asked to camp out overnight at the ground, and Amelia had caved. It had also been that which had killed any chance of Elise joining them on the journey - trapped in her routine as she was by frozen grief.
She really should have done more for her sister, but she simply could not spare the time. Perhaps Barty had been right to step down after a personal tragedy rocked his family - Amelia's was already devastated as it was.
And so, sat down at the small dining table, drinking coffee to boost her alertness through the late hours of the evening, Madame Bones continued her work, looking over the documents in a case of muggle baiting, and feeling the soul crushing weight of her work pressing down on her once again. Such frivolous cases were being brought to the Director of the DMLE for clearance to arrest members of society so close to the Executive Office, and Amelia was seriously debating turning down request. A shit-slinging match with the Minister's office was a bad idea, and the fines would result in little more than pocket change being turned over.
She was just adding her signature to a letter to be posted by owl, when the flap of her tent opened, and Hestia Jones poked her head in, eyes wide and wand in her hand. The parting of the tent flap immediately wafted the smell of smoke into her tent, and she noted that Jones wasn't wearing her Aurors robes, and was instead sporting that leather jacket she was so fond of, with a smear of soot on her cheek. "Madame - we've got a bit of a situation."
The sarcasm in Hestia's voice was somewhat strangled by the audible fear, something Amelia had never heard in the voice of the Auror she had chosen as her personal guard, and the Director wasted no time in rising to her feet, drawing her wand, and giving the tent a brief sweep - only for her eyes to lock onto Susan's now worried expression as her niece sat up in bed. Before she could even speak, Amelia beat her to it. "Kippa."
With a pop, the house elf appeared between Amelia and her niece, bowing her head. "Kippa is here, Madame Boneses."
"Take Susan home to her room. Tell Elise to raise the wards to their highest until morning." With a further bow, Kippa moved over to Susan, taking her hand as Amelia gave her niece a reassuring smile. "It'll be alright, Susan. I'll see you tomorrow, depending on how bad this is."
Susan gave a small, worried, smile in return, before Kippa vanished with a pop, leaving Amelia to turn back to Hestia, who was giving a very brief look of disapproval at the long, formal robes that she was wearing. Frankly, Amelia shared the sentiment, and with a wave of her wand, they pulled themselves from her body, leaving her in the still formal, but far more functional blouse and pants she had worn to the World Cup. They would do in a pinch, far more than say, dress robes.
A quick wave of her wand transfigured the pearl necklace into a decent enough mimic of the Auror Jacket she had worn during her service in the war - she did lament that it was a rather expensive necklace that she was doing it to, but that was a secondary concern. Striding forwards, she ushered Hestia out of the tent, ducking her head and walking out into pure pandemonium.
A handful of Aurors awaited her outside, clearly waiting for her instruction, but she craned her neck over them, taking in the sight of the burning campground, watching as fire danced and darted about - and she became aware that, with the presence of Fiendfyre, this was far more than a riot. "Proudfoot - Status report?"
The man next to her cleared his throat. "Several individuals dressed as Death Eaters - somewhere in the region of three dozen. We've got a confirmed seven wearing old regalia - regalia we know. I've personally spotted the Carrow's in their numbers, and Hestia is fair certain she saw Malfoy and.. Who else?"
"Avery. His regalia should still be in the DMLE, though." The female Auror supplied, her expression pinched, and her breaths clipped, her voice betraying just a little hint of the nerves that had infected Amelia's own first combat assignment. This was supposed to be a way for the trainee Aurors like Jones to get some practical experience with some more rowdy members of society at a sporting event - it had turned into a Death Eater hunt.
"Proudfoot, take Tonks and Jones. They're your responsibility. Shacklebolt, Hayden and Snyde are yours. If anyone finds any more of the trainees, pair them off with a proper Auror. This isn't an exercise, be careful with your spells. Go lethal if you need to." Several of the trainees seemed openly taken aback at the comment, as did some of the normal Aurors, but barely had she been able to finish that before a cry that was startlingly familiar broke through the air.
"MORSMORDRE!"
Whipping her head over to the source of the voice, she found several tents blocking her way, but the streak of light into the sky drew her attention, watching as the green light roared higher and higher, before dimming out mid-air. A heartbeat passed, before an ethereal wail blasted through the air as green light briefly stunned her - just for a moment, before the haunting dread sank in as she realised where she had heard that wail before.
Staring up from the ground level, Amelia Bones watched in horror as the Dark Mark roared in silent triumph over the burned remains of the Quidditch World Cup. The noise of someone being sick filled the air, but Amelia kept her gaze on the Dark Mark, desperately trying to regain the firm authoritative expression she had lost when the simple symbol had burned to life. This was going to be in the press - undoubtedly. The Prophet would do as it had a decade prior, hiding behind the veneer of telling the truth, whilst fearmongering with reckless abandon.
This was not going to be a good look.
Swallowing the horrible reminders of just where she had seen the mark before, Amelia Bones clenched her left fight tightly, swallowing down her nerves and her fear, and raised her voice. "Proudfoot and Shacklebolt, take your trainees and help keep order in the evacuation. Dawlish and Savage, gather a dozen others and get that Fiendfyre under control. Berrycloth and Williamson, ensure that the Minister and other high-ranking personnel are far away from this mess." Not that they'd have any reason to worry. It was little surprise that she was putting Williamson on Ministerial duty, he was an idiot, but she had Berrycloth there because she damn well needed someone who could defend the Executive party of need be.
"The rest of you, you're with me. We're going to try round up as many as we can." At the sea of nods and indications of agreement, Amelia pushed her way through the Aurors unmentioned, watching as they parted like a sea before her, and hearing as they hurriedly made their way behind her. As she passed the first blazing tent, Amelia waved her wand, drowning the smouldering ashes and embers with a wave of water that hissed and steamed in the night.
What a colossal fucking mess.
Barty had a new appreciation for Alastor Moody.
The man had put up one hell of a fight for being jumped at his house in the middle of the night - he had returned fire with a full fusillade of spells that had left two craters in the road that Corban had to patch over hurriedly, lest the DMLE find them and realise that this had been more than a minor disturbance. It had been a chore to put him down without killing the ex-Auror.
A chore that had cost Wormtail three fingers and (briefly) his left foot, and had nearly sent Yaxley to Mungo's with a curse that - almost miraculously - Wormtail, of all people, knew how to counter. How in the name of Merlin Peter fucking Pettigrew knew the counter curse for some of the spells thrown by Alastor Moody, Barty would never understand.
But it had been a good idea to hit Mad-Eye's house on the same night as the World Cup - the Auror response had been immensely delayed. It had been almost half an hour before the Ministry turned up to Mad-Eye's house, and when they did, it had been Arthur Weasley at the head of the contingent. That had been half an hour for Wormtail and Yaxley to assist Barty into Moody's attire, giving Barty time to rifle through Moody's head just enough to mimic him in the short term to someone who barely knew him.
It also gave him a frustrating appreciation for the old Auror’s occlumency skills.
It had taken only the mention of the infernal dustbins to immediately have the Ministry thinking that it was just a false alarm - Corban had said that 'Moody Duty' was a much-maligned job, given that the man often interrogated those who responded to his alarms. The Ministry men were pleased to be out of there so quickly, and Barty had only given them some grumbled complaints about incompetence.
He now had a few days to get a handle on the personality of Alastor Moody, get a feel for his wand and personality, and build up the persona that he would be living in for the next year.
Uhg, I'm going to miss wearing these suits..
Trying to turn on his heel, he nearly fell clean onto his face, grumbling another complaint in the privacy of his mind.
And being able to walk properly.
The Dark Mark blazed over the campground, hanging high in the sky, and giving a silent, yet triumphant wail. Barely had Sirius been able to take in the sight before the scene was ripped from his eyes as the newspaper carrying the image was slammed onto the desk in front of him. The fuming, and rather portly, figure of Cornelius Fudge stewed in impotent rage as he bit out his remarks, shaking with quiet anger. "Do either of you know what this will do to Britain?"
In a way, it was like being yelled at by a teacher - although McGonagall was far scarier.
"What it does to Britain is your concern, Minister. What it means for Britain is ours." Amelia did have a wonderful way with words, and her stern response left the Minister floundering for a short period. The woman stayed seated behind her desk, with Sirius standing at her left shoulder, hand resting atop the back of the woman's chair.
"The safety of Britain is your responsibility, Amelia. Such open displays of strength from those thought gone sends the exact opposite message! It makes the government look weak at home and abroad!" Amelia made a noise of displeasure at the Minister as he flapped his hand about like a lunatic.
"That is to say, you believe it will cost you votes. The DMLE is beholden to the citizens of Britain, not the Executive Branch. We are investigating, Minister, but with only two hundred Aurors not assigned to current investigations, and our investigative powers being curtailed by the Wizengamot, we've had little luck." Fudge looked briefly horrified, and for a moment Sirius thought - against all logic - that the man might have seen reason. Alas, when it came to the creature known as Cornelius Fudge, reason was far beyond anything he was capable of.
"Two hundred Aurors on the case, and you've got nowhere? Merlin's beard, no wonder your budget is so large! Can't you do an audit, see whom we can get rid of to make way for some innovative thinkers?" Sirius gave a clipped sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose as he spoke, trying not to let frustration totally destroy his argument.
"We did one of those last year, Minister." Fudge bristled, straightening up and seeming suddenly quite interested. His reply was eagre.
"You did? Wonderful - and the result?" Amelia gave a grim expression as Sirius spoke in an almost deadpan.
"It transpired that we actually needed two hundred more Aurors, and thrice that in civil staff." Fudge looked suitably horrified, leaving enough room for Amelia to jump in with her pitch.
"Minister - this incident shows us that the state of Law Enforcement in Britain has been diminished post-war to an unacceptable, or rather, unmanageable extent. Regardless of if this incident is indicative of what is to come, or is simply indicative that we have relaxed too much post-war, the DMLE budget needs to be restored to its pre-war status, at the very least." Fudge stared at her for moment, blinking with his eyes owlishly large.
"You must be mad! I can't be seen to be joining the people in their terror, it would make my Government look reactionary!" Sirius was grateful that Amelia responded, given he was biting his tongue in order to keep his quip in. Reactionary would be to view Fudge's government as radical progressives.
Amelia's approach was brutally blunt. "When the people are scared, they become foolish and act idiotically."
Fudge bristled again. "Amelia, they are the citizens of Britain. They elected me!"
Sirius' teeth sank deeper into his tongue as he smothered the snort with a low cough. The joke wrote itself, and a grim smile broke onto his lips for a moment before he mercilessly strangled it as he nodded along.
Before Fudge could respond, Amelia rose to her feet, and Sirius noticed immediately how the Minister seemed to shrink back a little as Amelia Bones rose to stand just a bit taller than him, even as he straightened himself up and released her desk. The Minister seemed cowed a little as the Director of the DMLE laid down her facts. "Cornelius, it takes no less than two years to send a trainee through the full Auror program, and a further year field training before they earn their badge. You can't simply hand the DMLE a sack of Galleons and expect more Aurors to appear. Right now, I can only afford to hire the best of the recruits. With the Triwizard Tournament you, Albus and Barty managed to restart, the DMLE is stretched beyond capacity, and last night demonstrates exactly what happens when those circumstances arise."
"If you want a safer Britain, I can give you one. But I will need, at minimum, a thirty percent increase in departmental budget to hire the trainees I turned down in the past two years and send them through refresher courses, this year's batch, and to make budgetary ends meet." At that, the Minister practically jumped out of his skin.
"Thirty percent?!-" A frustrated noise left the Director as she leant forwards.
"Cornelius, Head Auror Black and I have willing slashed our own wages down to subsistence for the past three years. Our holiday bonuses go to paying the wages of the law clerks who work fourteen-hour days throughout the holiday period. You want a safer Britain? Pay people to do the work you don't want to think about." Cornelius stared at the pair of them for several seconds, doubtless caught between any number of unpleasant responses that neither Sirius, nor Amelia truly wanted to deal with, but would be forced to if the Minister said so.
Then, suddenly, Cornelius Fudge seemed to straighten up a little. With a stiff nod, he locked eyes with Sirius, then Amelia in turn. "I am a man of the people, Amelia. I believe in small government, and security for all. If you pass the balance sheet of the DMLE to my office, I will adjust the coming budget to allocate for the hiring of a hundred more Aurors and two hundred civil staff over the next three years."
With a single nod, Fudge bid them a good day, and walked out of the office, leaving in his wake a momentarily stunned silence, broken only by Sirius' sarcastic drawl. "A Minister with two ideas, I can't remember the last time we had one of those."
"Cornelius might be in the pocket of Lucius, but he's not a complete idiot. He knows that Malfoy is bending the law for a reason, and this little display just got his attention in a way that Lucius probably didn't expect it to." Amelia sighed, pinching the ridge of her nose. "Unfortunately, that doesn't mean he's immediately on our side. He's a vain and insecure man, and he knows that he relies on Lucius quite heavily as of the moment. Cornelius didn't give us expanded powers to interrogate and question. The Wizengamot wouldn't allow that, nor would Lucius and the Traditionalists... What a shitty fucking situation Bagnold left us in."
"We've done our best, Amelia. We've just got to make do at this point." Sirius glanced to his right, looking directly at the woman, tilting his head as he did so. "Worst comes to it, we could go to Croaker and re-establish the DoM-DMLE Operations group. The Black accounts can take the funding hit, and we can use it to address further problems outside of our legal scope."
"It disappoints me that I see such an idea is seen as reasonable." Sitting back down at her desk, Amelia Bones drew a heavy and long-suffering breath, glancing down at the pen in her hand - and Sirius rather got the implication that, whilst her pen was truly one of the mightiest in Britain, she would much rather it to be a wand.