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HP: From Failed Art Student to Dark Artist of Hogwarts - 249
🕑 Added 2025-11-10 19:24:49 +0000 UTCChapter 249: Minister Fudge, Do You Like My Golden Bird? Hee-hee
Ministry of Magic Atrium.
“Whoosh!”
Pale green flames flared. Dawlish tumbled out onto the tiles with a thud, drawing startled looks from the surrounding staff.
He looked weather‑beaten. Sweat plastered his hair to his scalp in lank strands. His face was slick and clammy, his breath coming hard. His neat Auror uniform looked as though it had been through a gale, rumpled and askew.
“Ah, that’s the Auror who tried to arrest Ethan Vincent, right?”
“Pfft. Can’t even tell right from wrong. What a disgrace to Aurors. Weren’t they the same lot who grabbed Sirius without a word back then?”
As whispers rippled, Dawlish clenched his jaw and thought darkly, You know nothing. That kid is worse than the Dark Lord ever was. He barely feels human.
Just remembering the flood of golden light, the opening of those countless cobalt eyes, sent a chill over his skin like night air across a graveyard.
Ethan Vincent is pure evil. He had to tell Minister Fudge, and fast. The Minister would not be like these ignorant clerks. He would believe. He would stand with him against this evil.
A flame ignited behind Dawlish’s eyes. He dragged himself up from his knees and sprinted for the Minister’s office.
He did not notice the small golden bird circling above—a creature that had no business existing so far underground—beating bright wings and tracking his hurried outline in its black eyes.
“Whose conjuration is that?” someone whispered, awed. “Beautiful. It looks so pure, so holy.”
—
Inside the Minister’s office, Cornelius Fudge was sweating as he packed. Drawers lay yanked out and overturned, papers scattered like snow. He bustled among them like a harried bee.
Moments earlier, water screens across Britain had displayed Pettigrew’s ruin from every angle, striking terror into all who watched. No one had expected a reversal this massive on a case long closed.
“Exposing Pettigrew’s crimes before everyone, then passing sentence on the spot, leaving no room for reversal,” Fudge muttered through gritted teeth. “A deft hand. Ruthless.”
Beneath the fury, fear stirred. How did that brat know the truth of those years? When had he started planning all of this? It felt like an invisible eye had watched them from above, moving the whole board.
But you miscalculated one thing, Ethan Vincent.
Fudge snapped his suitcase shut and smirked. “All I have to do is ‘retire for health reasons’ and prop up a scapegoat. I’ll take some flak, but once it blows over, I will still be the Minister.”
As for the scapegoat, there was always that thick-skulled “justice Auror.”
Ethan Vincent, if you think you can topple me, you’re still green.
A shiver lanced through Fudge. He glanced instinctively at the closed door. A cold draft seemed to creep through the gap, brushing his neck with gooseflesh.
What was that?
He swallowed. He was being jumpy. This was the Ministry of Magic, second only to Gringotts in security. His office door was warded to the hilt. It could not be forced from the outside.
He waited, stiff. Nothing happened. He let out a shaky breath and chuckled. “Frightening myself.”
“Oh my.”
The door opened.
A strip of blackness split the room.
Impossible.
Fudge’s heart stopped cold. Blood turned to ice. He could not move as he stared at the widening gap. Silence fell over everything. No footsteps, no chatter, no elevator hum. The world had been cut away.
“Shhhrrrp.”
A scarlet curtain slid over the windows, the room’s furnishings bathed in blood-red wash, as if submerged. One by one, cobalt eyes opened in that curtain and rolled to look at him.
Fudge shook all over, teeth clicking. A thin sound leaked from his throat. Was he still in the wizarding world? Or had he slipped into a horror film?
The black seam widened. From its depth came a voice he knew far too well.
“Minister…”
A hand reached through, skewered with thorns.
Fudge nearly left his soul behind. The hand’s skin hung white and drained, as if the barbs had sucked its blood dry. Flesh slumped from bone like a rubber glove.
The arm dragged forward, joint by joint, until the owner’s face came into view.
Auror John Dawlish.
The idiot he had planned to use as a shield.
Now, Dawlish still wore the shape of a man, but crawled like a spider. Joints were reversed, and a forest of spikes—swords of judgment—pierced nearly every inch of his skin.
“Minister… help… it hurts…” Dawlish rasped, thorns biting deep into his throat. His one remaining eye bulged, fixed on Fudge as he dragged himself forward with a single arm.
“D-don’t come closer!”
Fudge collapsed onto his backside and crab-crawled away, snot and tears running as his legs scraped the floor.
“I came to report… on Ethan Vincent… heh… heh…” Dawlish grinned, bloody tears tracking his cheeks. “Are you… trying to run?”
Ethan?
Yes. Ethan.
Light flared in Fudge’s eyes. Just before that ghastly hand could catch his ankle, he screamed with all the air in his lungs.
“I—I’ll resign! Spare me, please—!”
He broke into sobs. He soaked himself.
Only then did regret hit with crushing force. Why had he provoked Ethan at all? If he’d saluted from the start, perhaps he could have kept the title, Minister in name.
He had been beaten by a child.
Relief and despair tangled as his eyes rolled back and he fainted dead away.
By the time the others burst into the Minister’s office, they found their Minister and an Auror sprawled in a heap at the doorway. The former’s trousers were stained with an unknown wet. The latter’s magic had rioted; blood leaked from nose, ears, and mouth.
There were no signs of forced entry. The door had been opened by Fudge himself.
“What on earth happened?”
“Merlin. No wonder the Minister often summoned this Auror alone… scandalous.”
“He rarely did real work, but always had time for… side pursuits.”
Murmurs spread. Eyes gleamed with gossip and contempt.
Time to send a gift to Mr. Scrimgeour. That iron-handed man would suit the Minister’s chair far better than Fudge.
At the thought of the black-haired boy on the water screen with those terrible cobalt eyes, a shiver ran through the room.
As they rushed the two men to St. Mungo’s, no one noticed the corner.
A small golden bird clutched a spray of thorns in its beak. It chirped indistinctly and fluttered away, turning to a streak of light, gone without a trace.
