Has the Dark Lord truly been resurrected and is now lurking somewhere among the people, carrying out his sinister activities in the shadows?
This was a question that, in truth, required no deep thought or careful pondering to answer honestly.
One needed only to open their eyes and look around with clear vision—at the suspicious foreign wizards smuggling themselves across the border seeking refuge or opportunity, at the dire and deteriorating state of security in the British magical world with its rising crime and unexplained disappearances, and at those old pure-blood wizard families who were stirring restlessly, making unusual movements and quiet preparations.
Even the most dim-witted wizard, the most willfully blind fool, should be able to make an accurate judgment based on these obvious signs.
But Rufus said nothing in response to Bryan's question. His jaw worked silently, teeth clenched.
The true difficulty of answering this seemingly simple question lay elsewhere entirely—not in knowing the truth, but in the consequences of speaking it aloud.
His hand beneath his waterproof cloak clenched into a tight fist. Rufus stared intently at the young face behind the round table, studying every micro-expression. His own complexion was turning somewhat pale, the color was draining as he wrestled with the implications.
If Watson used some method to record his answer and brought that recorded testimony before the Minister for Magic, then his career would be finished just like that. Over in an instant.
Just like that young man from the Weasley family, who had been forced out of his position and sidelined into irrelevance.
But at this moment, if he was being honest with himself, his situation within the Ministry wasn't much better anyway. He was already being marginalized, already losing ground.
Strictly speaking, he had always supported the Minister's faction within the Ministry's complex political landscape. And recently, with tensions rising in the magical world and threats multiplying, the Minister should logically be trying to secure his support more firmly, should be bringing him into the inner circle.
Yet strangely, even the Ministry's highest decision-making level had been systematically dividing and diminishing the power in his hands instead of consolidating it.
Madam Bones was the first to do so.
She had started after Christmas this year, bypassing him to contact the Aurors under his command directly, giving them assignments and receiving their reports without going through proper channels.
Though she did it somewhat discreetly, with surface politeness and official excuses, it couldn't possibly escape the notice of the Head of the Auror Office. He saw everything that happened in his department.
Madam Bones doing this wasn't particularly surprising when he thought about it rationally. After all, she was the person Bryan Watson publicly supported within the Ministry. While he himself was widely seen as part of the Minister's faction in the eyes of outsiders and insiders both.
They were on opposite sides of a growing divide.
But the fact that Madam Umbridge, that toad-faced woman was also covertly supporting his own subordinate Dawlish, helping the man to compete with him for power and authority within his own office—that was deeply puzzling.
Umbridge was absolutely of the Minister's party, belonging to the exact same faction as himself, Fudge's most loyal pet.
She had no logical reason whatsoever to undermine him, did she?
Moreover, after he had expressed his dissatisfaction and concerns to the Minister almost directly, requesting clarification and support during a private meeting, the Minister hadn't stood up for him as expected.
Fudge hadn't defended him or reaffirmed his position. Instead, incredibly, he'd given Umbridge vague support in her actions, basically blessing the power grab.
Undoubtedly, all signs and evidence indicated clearly that he had somehow lost the trust of both the Minister and Deputy Minister Umbridge, though he couldn't pinpoint exactly when or why it had happened.
Or perhaps Dawlish had done something to earn greater trust from the higher-ups which was why he was being deliberately sidelined and replaced.
Gazing across the table at Bryan Watson, at that calm, knowing face which seemed absolutely certain he would ultimately give the answer Watson wanted, a ghostly light flickered in the depths of Rufus's tawny pupils.
"You know why—"
Halfway through his words, speaking almost without thinking, Rufus saw Bryan Watson's eyebrow raise slightly. He clamped his mouth shut abruptly, biting off the rest of the sentence.
He hadn't yet answered Watson's question about Voldemort's return. Presumably, Watson wouldn't be kind enough or generous enough to enlighten him about Ministry politics until he did.
At some point during their conversation, Aberforth had finished dealing with the flooding outside and quietly returned to his pub, slipping in through the back entrance.
He noticed immediately the bottle of aged, expensive sherry that Bryan had opened without permission, without even asking, sitting brazenly on his bar. But he didn't explode in his usual anger at the presumption. Instead, he fixed his sharp gaze tightly on Rufus Scrimgeour across the room, those equally bright blue Dumbledore pupils were filled with profound gravity and genuine astonishment.
Among the several people Watson had arranged to meet at his pub today for these secret conversations, Rufus Scrimgeour's appearance here was by far the most incredible to Aberforth.
With Albus Dumbledore as his brother and backing, running such an establishment frequented by bigwigs and those with secrets, Aberforth was no ignorant village commoner despite his rough manner.
His network of information and contacts was among the best and most widespread in the entire Wizarding world. That was precisely why he felt so surprised by this particular meeting.
Rufus Scrimgeour had always been a firm pillar of the Minister's faction, a known quantity and reliable vote, hadn't he? One of Fudge's men through and through.
Why would he be meeting privately with Watson in this secretive manner? The implications hidden within this meeting were truly chilling when one thought through all the possibilities!
The damp, cold, dim pub was permeated now with a strange atmosphere that made hearts race and blood surge with adrenaline, as if a major conference determining the future's direction was taking place here in this grimy room.
Looking at Watson sitting calmly at the round table in the back section of the pub, undoubtedly dominating this negotiation with confidence, clearly holding all the cards, Aberforth moved his lips to perhaps speak. He found them as dry as if he'd been through intense heat.
He poured the remainder of the bottle Watson had opened into a clean glass with surprisingly gentle, careful movements. The moment his lips touched the slightly cool, smooth liquid, Aberforth found himself suddenly recalling a conversation with Albus from last time.
That significant conversation had been at the beginning of last month, when Watson had left Hogwarts with that wolf cub Remus Lupin and gone to New York for business.
And it was during this specific time that the Ministry, led by Fudge had suddenly moved aggressively against Albus.
Not only had they stripped Dumbledore of many prestigious titles including his position as Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot, but they'd also thoroughly canceled many scheduled interviews, academic invitations, and speaking engagements.
Aberforth could see clearly a trace of helplessness and frustration in his normally all-powerful brother's expression during that visit.
"Heh, the Ministry seems to think you're easier to deal with, doesn't it?"
That late night, with rain pattering on the windows, Aberforth had stood behind his bar in his usual position. He'd looked at Albus, who was sitting alone under a flickering oil lamp, taking small sips of whiskey. Aberforth had mocked sarcastically, unable to help himself.
"Oh—"
Albus, who had been lost in deep thought, staring into his glass, came back to himself with a small flinch. He looked up at his brother, and in his clear, still-bright blue eyes there was no embarrassment or anger at the observation. Instead, there was some relief and philosophical emotion.
"If you're referring to the Ministry's decision to target me rather than Bryan, Aberforth—"
Albus smiled.
"Although my relationship with the Ministry is tense now, strained to the breaking point really, I must say that the Ministry's decision was actually correct. Cornelius, for once in his political career, didn't act foolishly as he usually does and provoke Bryan."
"It's rare to hear anything close to such from your mouth."
After a brief silence, Aberforth spoke in a calm tone quite unlike his usual crude style, genuinely curious about this admission.
"Heh heh—"
Albus was unfazed by the observation and continued smiling with self-awareness.
"People think I'm rule-abiding and virtuous, a paragon of goodness. You know the truth is likely not so simple, Aberforth. I've done things, made choices. But the problem is, these labels, these expectations that seem stuck to me with a Permanent Sticking Charm do indeed constrain me now. I've built a reputation I must live up to. Bryan, on the other hand, is much freer. He can act in ways I cannot."
Taking a slow sip of the crimson liquid, gazing thoughtfully at the sediment floating in the gently swirling wine, Albus continued.
"I've always been wary of Bryan, wary of when the violence and ruthlessness hidden in his character might lose control, overwhelming his kindness, causing even greater harm to the Wizarding world than Voldemort."
His voice grew quieter, more thoughtful.
"But I must admit honestly that this capacity for violence, this willingness to act decisively without moral paralysis, grants him a freer space to act in, more room to maneuver. Yes, that's right—Cornelius doesn't dare provoke him easily, doesn't dare push too far. And this freedom, this fear he inspires... it occasionally makes me feel envious, I confess."
"That's right—"
The sudden voice, sharp and decisive, startled Aberforth abruptly out of his vivid memory. He blinked rapidly, disoriented for a moment, then realized it was the Head of the Auror Office speaking.
That purple, ghostly sea in Bryan Watson's eyes—that overwhelming presence which would ultimately devour any attempt to shake it or resist had finally made Rufus Scrimgeour yield and give his answer.
Rufus's face was pale, drained of color, his voice more insubstantial and hollower than ever before.
"I believe he has returned. This is an irrefutable truth."
The suffocating atmosphere that had filled the pub dissolved in an instant, like a broken spell!
"A wise judgment, Rufus—"
Bryan finally smiled again, broadly and with genuine warmth. He looked at Rufus with full appreciation and approval, as if he had passed some crucial test.
"Then, there's a second question—"
In the dimness, Bryan's purple eyes emitted a faint glow. And in his profound, piercing gaze seemed to appear two deadly whirlpools, hypnotic and drawing, pulling at Rufus's very soul.
"Given that Voldemort has already returned to the Wizarding world and is gathering his forces, Rufus, what will you do about it?"
"I will—"
Meeting Bryan Watson's intense gaze directly, all the evasive words and careful tactful phrases Rufus wanted to say stuck at the edge of his mouth. He breathed heavily, his chest heaving. Sweat was dripping in large beads down his temples.
"Resist. We must fight to the end. We have no other choice, do we?"
These words came out finally, honestly.
Bryan's cheerful, satisfied laughter echoed through the dim interior, breaking the tension completely.
"Then we are comrades-in-arms, Rufus—"
All questions and answers, all the complex negotiations and testing, were contained within these two simple questions. When Rufus gave his heartfelt replies, the two men needed to talk no further about specifics. Everything was understood without additional words.
"If I had not given you the answer you wanted today, what would have happened, Watson?"
At the moment before stepping out the door, preparing to leave back into the world and face whatever came next, Rufus's face, now slightly flushed from emotion and the warmth of the pub, turned back to look at Bryan, who was courteously seeing him off.
"Nothing would have happened."
The heavy rain had finally dispersed, blown away by changing winds. Hazy twilight was appearing on the horizon.
Looking earnestly at Rufus's sharp tawny eyes that had regained their keenness, Bryan smiled and emphasized once more.
"I'm not the Dark Lord, am I?"
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