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HP: Fairy Tale Wizard - 173
🕑 Added 2025-11-12 17:49:45 +0000 UTCChapter 173: Undercurrents Beneath the Surface
“You mean that in the not even one full day I was away to contact Newt, the Thames area suffered a devastating attack—so much so that the entire wizarding world is, for all practical purposes, exposed within London’s boundaries, and if not for using a Muggle-Repelling Charm to confine them inside London, the Statute of Secrecy would already have failed by now?”
Even Dumbledore, seasoned as he was, felt a wave of dizziness at the report.
Not even when he had listened to Grindelwald’s war bulletins and wrestled with whether to intervene had he felt this wrung-out.
Bones flushed and lowered her head, unwilling to meet the eyes of the elderly man who had just returned from the United States and would soon be tidying the Ministry’s mess yet again.
“Very well… what do you need me to do first—restore Westminster Bridge, or the streets around the Thames that were destroyed? Newt will need to prepare quite a lot, and he cannot make long-distance or successive Apparitions. If we are to remove memories, it will likely take another two or three days.”
Dumbledore took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. He could not, in fairness, lay all of this at the door of the British Ministry of Magic.
Their response had been late, true; but to be fair, an incident of this magnitude was beyond the Ministry’s capacity to handle from the start. Even the matter of Westminster Bridge—any Ministry in the world would have ended up needing Newt’s approach to clear memories.
Even with timely reporting and swift action, the result would have been the same. The city’s busiest transport artery would have spread the story faster than the Ministry had trained Obliviators to contain.
All the witches and wizards in England together could not match half the population of London; the wizarding world’s resilience to systemic shocks… simply is not there.
As for the dragon yesterday…
To be honest, Dumbledore could not bring himself to think Sterling unrelated.
For one, the wizarding world has seen draconic magics through the centuries, but none that turned a human into a dragon—let alone a dragon that could paralyse the Ministry’s entire combat arm.
A dragon species’ own limit is a standoff with, at most, a dozen ordinary witches and wizards. Trained dragon-handlers need only three to five. As for elite Aurors—especially a battle-hardened “hero Auror” like Moody—one alone might not bring it down, but a stalemate would be assured.
A dragon of that calibre… appears only in old legends now.
Those dragons vanished from the world long ago. The common belief is that they degenerated into today’s species. That is not wholly wrong, but that is only a portion of the truth. Many others were led into Avalon by Merlin and, in the beginning, by the first to fulfil Destiny.
A wizard transformed into an Avalon dragon…
Dumbledore should, by rights, have considered whether some wizard at the limits of power had found Avalon and, by filling sigils with Animagus or other magic, won such strength. But—what a coincidence—Sterling was in London.
And during their first night-time talk, when Dumbledore mentioned the dragon witch renowned throughout the Nordic wizarding world, Sterling had perhaps thought himself well-disguised, but a fox‑keen Dumbledore could not miss the ring of familiarity in the boy’s eyes at that name.
Thus, when Bones asked, “Please find that Dark wizard—leaving a dangerous Dark Wizard to roam freely in England is too risky. If we cannot arrest him… at least drive him out. England cannot take this kind of devastation again!”
Dumbledore could only shake his head.
“By your own memory, he initially tried to parley with you. And no one, before this, had seen him commit any act or offered proof that he is a Dark wizard, correct? There were issues with how the Ministry handled it.”
“But Professor Dumbledore—”
“Enough. Let us view the street memories first. Restoring an area this large, and this detailed… a major undertaking.”
He patted the rim of the Pensieve and gave Bones a gentle smile, though his tone allowed no argument.
He would not set himself against Sterling… no, put it properly: it was the Ministry’s misunderstanding that led to this. There had been no fatalities; Sterling had not been wrong here.
Of course, if he had been, Dumbledore would still shelter him without a qualm.
For the greater good… no investment on earth could match investing in Sterling.
Bones wilted under the old man’s presence. She abandoned the speech she had prepared and set the pre‑collected vials of memory on the desk.
“Please.”
Fudge’s face was black as Barty Crouch Sr. offered him a seemingly respectful gesture of invitation.
“After you, Minister. The Wizengamot awaits your explanation for the Ministry’s conduct during this period.”
“…You know I will not fall—and even if I do, no one who replaces me will be you. Your son buried your political future long ago, Barty.”
With a parting barb, Fudge straightened his collar. The tilt of his chin melted into profound weariness the instant he stepped into the hall.
“Cornelius Fudge… we will now proceed to your questioning. On the basis of your report, we will decide whether to move the next ministerial election forward.”
White‑haired and frail, the ancient wizard Tarlivy spoke in Dumbledore’s stead, the Chief Warlock being unable to attend. Oldest among the Wizengamot, only he had the standing to preside—especially with Bones, who had brought the motion, recusing herself.
“Of course, Mr Tarlivy. The Minister for Magic has a duty to report to the Wizengamot, to ensure the Minister neither breaks the law nor neglects his work.”
Fudge bent at the waist to show respect to the venerable elder.
The documents he had assembled on short notice were handed round by Umbridge, who was all-in on this defence.
She knew her entire career depended on Fudge’s patronage; she had no personal merit to stand on. If Fudge fell, she would not fare well. She was pouring in every ounce of effort in hopes of “defending the throne.”
The attendees quickly skimmed the few pages. Piers struck first.
“Minister Fudge, your report sidesteps key issues. On the night Westminster Bridge was destroyed, staff attempted to pass information up the chain, but because you were not at your post, and had established neither an emergency communications channel nor a means to delegate powers, the department that should have handled the matter only learned of it once it had deteriorated beyond repair. I do not see your explanation for this.”
Piers did not even bother with the courtesy of “sir.”
As far as he was concerned, “Minister” was past tense for Fudge.
Not being at his desk was not, in truth, the problem—none of the upper ranks lingered at the Ministry after hours.
The lack of an emergency channel likewise might not have doomed them; there had been no such system before. But ill luck for Fudge—his tenure followed a wartime minister, and in wartime five distinct measures had been established to prevent the Minister from going out of contact. Inevitably, the two would be compared.
The final charge—“monopolising authority”—was the killing blow to send Fudge’s office to the scaffold.
Observational alerts had originally gone first to the Accidental Reversal Squad for rapid deployment. In recent years, Fudge had hurried to pull powers into his own hands, demanding that all reports go first to his office, and only if unprocessed for two hours could they be forwarded to other departments.
That rule had slowed the Ministry’s operation. Even without this fiasco, it was slated for repeal in September. Bad luck again—at the last moment, it failed. Your policy has caused a disaster on this scale. If you won’t step down, who will take responsibility?
Piers narrowed his eyes. No matter what cloud‑castles Fudge tried to build, the moment he started deflecting blame—
“I acknowledge that I bear inescapable responsibility. But I would like to speak to the remedies I enacted thereafter. I trust none of you has never erred. When an error occurs, ought we not first seek to solve the problem?”
What?!
Not only Piers—even Scrimgeour and Barty, who had just returned to his seat, were taken aback.
By their lights, Fudge should be denying everything, naming a scapegoat to take the fall for his edicts, or, in a cornered panic, dragging Scrimgeour into the Thames‑side mess to muddy the waters.
Instead, he admitted fault up front, let the Wizengamot see his attitude, and then immediately asserted the efforts he had made. Was this the same incompetent who could not walk a straight line without Dumbledore, the waste who relied on media manipulation and petty tricks?
“Speak,” Tarlivy nodded. That readiness to admit fault left a decent impression.
“I adopted and executed Ms Bones’s proposals at once, and I refined the gaps within her plan. I suppose Ms Bones, in her haste, failed to see my revisions and so came to believe I had been idle.”
Barty’s frown deepened. He could no longer read this man who had stumbled into office by sheer luck.
Too hasty? Hasty for what—gathering evidence to force Fudge out and take the post himself? The moment Fudge spoke, Bones’s standing in public opinion dipped.
That was indeed Bones’s aim—but some things cannot be said aloud.
If he now managed to say something genuinely useful… the man might actually turn the tables.
Yaxley, who had been slouched in indifference, jerked upright as if a fish flipped in a pan and studied Fudge with uncertainty. Just now, an old sensation he had thought dead returned—a burning sting in his left forearm.
He glanced around at once. A few familiar faces were also looking about. Their eyes met, showing identical shock.
They were Death Eaters who had evaded trial in the aftermath and remained employed at the Ministry.
And just now, as Fudge concluded and his gaze swept the chamber, their Dark Marks flared hot!
Yaxley gritted his teeth. He would have to help Fudge.
Whether or not the Dark Mark’s stir had anything to do with Fudge, he could not risk the alternative.
If it did, whether it meant the Dark Lord lived and had contact with him, or that Fudge knew who among them remained—
In any case, Fudge was not to be crossed.
“Minister Fudge, what improvements did you make to Bones’s plan? We would be glad to benefit from your wisdom.”
Faster even than Yaxley, another former Death Eater cued Fudge in with enthusiasm.
“Ms Bones’s plan only accounted for preventing Muggles who had learned about magic from leaving London. It overlooked whether the Muggle world would find their abnormalities suspicious.”
Barty’s face went entirely black. Fudge had gone straight to the weak point. If his “improvements” genuinely patched that hole, he would leave this hall unscathed.
He might even kick Bones out of the unspoken shortlist of ministerial contenders.
“Oh? Then you must have addressed that neatly, Minister Fudge—since we have received no notice of the Statute of Secrecy failing?”
This time, Yaxley provided the assist.
“Hardly neat. I simply opened channels with the Muggle government and had them coordinate ‘faults’ in mainstream Muggle transport, as well as ‘natural disasters’ to block Muggle media.”
Scrimgeour pressed his lips together. No one knew of this. Fudge had assigned only his tightest confidants.
He had hidden it for exactly this moment, banking on an impeachment and using this to smash his opponent’s standing—an assertion of power and a warning?
Was Fudge truly capable of this?
And Yaxley—since when had they been bought by Fudge? No one had seen any sign of a mutual interest before…
The rest of the session became Fudge’s stage. He displayed startling political craft and rhetoric; paired with a few inexplicable new backers, he dispatched the impeachment cleanly.
Like a victorious emperor, he returned to his office, shut every door and window, and drew from his robes a diary swaddled in protective layers.
“Your stratagem was effective.”
“Then my compensation will not be delayed by so great a Minister as yourself, will it?”
“Of course not. Merely blood with magic in it. But—how did you make those Yaxley types suddenly obey me?”
“That is my secret, my Minister. The more capable I am, the better for you, isn't it?”
“Good, good—then let us celebrate the perfect end to our first cooperation.”
“A pleasure to work with you… My dear Minister.”
