If there was one thing Cornelius Fudge despised more than the current state of affairs, more even than his rapidly dwindling relevance, it was how dark, dreary, and cold the Ministry of Magic always seemed to be. Especially in winter. The frigid air stung his nostrils with every breath, his throat dry and scratchy, craving relief. The chill had long since settled into his bones, a constant ache that reminded him not just of the season, but of his age. Still, it was a lesser torment compared to the quiet condemnation that followed him like a shadow.
His polished oxfords clicked across the black marble floors, their shine a dim reflection of the man who wore them. The stone beneath his feet was so perfectly polished that his own reflection stared back at him with accusatory clarity as he moved through the Ministry's vast, empty corridors.
It was just past midnight. The clock had long since tolled the hour, and silence reigned. Only the soft hum of magical wards and the occasional whisper of enchanted torches kept him company. Fudge preferred it this way. In the quiet of night, there were no whispers behind his back. No stares heavy with judgment. No muttered accusations about cowardice or incompetence or betrayal.
A year had passed since the fall of Voldemort, since the Battle of Hogwarts carved its name into history. The Dark Lord was gone. His followers scattered, captured, or killed. And yet peace had come at a staggering price. The wizarding world had begun to heal, slowly, haltingly. Forgiveness was in short supply. Especially for those who had failed to act when it mattered most.
Fudge pulled off his bowler hat, running a hand through the thin, greying strands atop his head. There was no pride left in his name. No honor. Everything he had built. His status, his influence, the respect he once commanded—was now rubble beneath his feet. Dust in the wake of a war he refused to see coming.
And remorse? No. What stirred in his chest wasn't guilt, but bitterness. Bitter that history had turned on him. Bitter that Dumbledore's parting words still echoed in his ears: "You will be remembered, Cornelius, not for what you did—but for what you failed to do."
He winced. Even now, the office he occupied was not earned but gifted. An act of mercy from his late successor Rufus Scrimgeour and the current Minister of Magic, Kingsley Shacklebolt, the very man who had replaced him. A charity position dressed in the robes of relevance. Cornelius Fudge walked on, a ghost among pillars of power, his legacy trailing behind him like a tattered cloak. Fading, frayed, and soon to be forgotten.
That being said, for the first time in years, a gnawing unease churned in his gut. A slow, creeping dread that took hold of his nerves and refused to let go. Cornelius Fudge had known fear before. The political kind, the kind that crept behind podiums and lurked in headlines—but this was different. This was primal. His hazel eyes flicked about, scanning the emerald-green brickwork that lined the Ministry's main hall, each tile polished to a gleam that only seemed to reflect his discomfort back at him.
He had heard the whispers. Quiet, conspiratorial murmurs that slithered through corridors when they thought no one important was listening. Murders. Silent killings. At first, it was ex-Death Eaters. No names, no faces, just the usual filth who had evaded Azkaban after the war. Then, it was the Purebloods. The ones who had aligned themselves with the Dark Lord. Then, something darker: Ministry officials. Former leaders. People who once held seats of power during Fudge's own tenure as Minister of Magic.
Each death had been cold, brutal, and meticulously executed. But what unsettled him most wasn't just the nature of the victims—it was the method. These weren't done with wands or hexes or any signature of magical assassination. No. These were muggle killings. Bullets. Blades. Garrotes pulled tight under the cover of night. Some were silent, clean. Others were so violent they left investigators visibly shaken.
That was the other thing. The Auror Office wasn't investigating. Or if they were, they were staying deathly quiet about it. Either they didn't know what was going on or they knew exactly who was responsible, and had been ordered to stay their hand.
Fudge swallowed. His thoughts returned to the rumor. Half-whispered, half-disbelieved that had reached him months ago. A secret organization. One buried beneath layers of deniability. An entity not bound by law, but created to restore balance in its absence. A name was never spoken, but he had heard what they were said to be.
He stepped into the steel cage of the elevator, the metallic grate closing behind him with a hollow clang. His gloved finger pressed the glowing rune-button, and with a shudder and grind, the carriage began its slow ascent. The sound of clanking chains echoed up the shaft as the amber lights flickered past, glowing like ghostly lanterns in the dark. The needle on the dial twitched to the right, floor by floor.
When the elevator came to a groaning halt, the gate unfurled with a mechanical clatter. Fudge stepped out into the corridor—cold, narrow, and eerily silent. His polished shoes tapped a slow rhythm on the stone floor as he made his way to the door at the far end. He paused, then wrapped his hand around the brass knob and pushed it open.
The room beyond was modest, dimly lit by the amber scones bleeding in through a towering floor-to-ceiling window. Outside, the Ministry's grand atrium stretched below, ten floors down, vast and silent beneath the glass ceiling. The office itself was a far cry from the grand chamber he had once ruled from as Minister of Magic—now replaced with a humble desk, a few chairs, and a coat rack that creaked beneath the weight of forgotten years.
He shrugged off his coat and hung it alongside his hat. With a weary breath, he crossed the room and stopped before the window, tucking his hands behind his back. His reflection wavered in the glass—older now, smaller, diminished.
How far I've fallen, he thought bitterly. Once, he had presided over this place with authority. His word had shaped laws, stirring fear and admiration alike. Now he was little more than a decorative relic. A political ghost kept on display for nostalgia's sake. Shacklebolt only kept him around to pacify a handful of aging loyalists—and even that charity would run dry soon enough.
He cursed them all. The Dark Lord, for rising. The Boy Who Lived, for surviving. The spineless cowards in his own ranks who whispered behind his back, who abandoned him when he needed their loyalty most. He had done what was expected. Held the line, maintained order, shielded the public from the ugly truths they were never meant to face.
And yet, history had turned on him. Not as a protector, but as a failure. Not as a leader, but as a lesson.
And Fudge had no intention of being remembered that way. No, he had a plan. One that might still set things right. One that could place him back on the board and restore him to the good graces of those who once turned their backs. Because the people—they always do what people do. In times of fear, when the darkness grows too thick to ignore, they come crawling back. To safety. To power. To a voice that promises order. Even if that voice belongs to the devil himself. So long as it's the devil they know.
The rasp of flint struck the silence like a knife. Fudge stiffened, his head snapping toward the sound—toward the shape that hadn't been there before.
A young man, late teens, sat casually in one of the leather chairs near the coffee table, his legs crossed, body draped in a tailored onyx-black three-piece suit. The flame from his silver lighter flickered against his face as he lit the cigarette dangling from his lips. Sharp features. Pale skin. Hair spiked back with surgical neatness. He took a long drag before snapping the lighter shut with a click, the flame extinguishing with a whisper. Smoke curled around him like a waiting curse.
The bitter scent of burnt tobacco filled the air. Fudge's gaze dropped to the coffee table. A half-empty bottle of scotch sat between two glasses—one untouched, the other cradling a slow-melting orb of ice.
But it wasn't the drink that made his blood run cold. Next to it, sleek and unmistakable in its design, lay a muggle weapon.
A gun.
The young man exhaled, watching Fudge through the drifting haze.
"Sure took your sweet time," he said coolly. "I've been waiting here for hours. Hope you don't mind—I helped myself to your stash." He gestured to the crystal glasses. "Gotta give you credit. You've got taste. But I'm more of a bourbon man."
He tapped the ash from his cigarette into the tray, following the other man's gaze as it lingered on the weapon resting before him. A grin tugged at his lips.
"Heckler & Koch P30L," he said casually. "Custom trigger and compensator. Holds fifteen rounds—nine-millimetre Parabellum. Call it a… graduation present." He chuckled under his breath, shaking his head. "Heard so many of you wizarding types go on about wand cores and wood grain, figured I'd try it out loud. Still sounds just as lame as I thought it would."
"What the devil—?" Fudge's thoughts finally caught up to him. His words cracked in alarm. "How in bloody Hell did you get in here?"
The young man gave a nonchalant shrug. "Right, manners. Name's Ashford—you can call me Ryan," he said, eyes flicking to the smoldering tip of his cigarette. "No pun intended. Not that it'll matter much remembering it. As for how I got in? Took the stairs. Walked right through. You really ought to lock your doors, Mister Fudge. I didn't even need an Unlocking Charm—not that I'm capable of using it in the first place."
Fudge inhaled sharply, though he tried to mask it behind a thin veil of composure. He made his way to the desk, the leather chair creaking under his weight as he sat. With forced calm, he removed his gloves, laying them neatly before him. His brow glistened, a bead of sweat trailing down as he steepled his fingers.
"I see," he said carefully. "The firearm. The suit. I'll hazard a guess—you're one of them, then." His eyes narrowed slightly. "So, this is it. They've decided I've outlived my usefulness."
Ryan stifled a laugh, the corner of his mouth twitching as the old man raised a brow. "Sorry," he said, lifting a hand. "It's just—usefulness. That one always gets me."
Fudge ignored his remark as he leaned back in his chair, fingers laced together. "I've heard the whispers—from what few contacts I still have lingering in the Ministry's upper echelons. That Shacklebolt, along with every known leader of the Wizarding and Muggle World quietly signed off on some clandestine task force. A shadow outfit with no oversight. No accountability. Just a blank cheque and a license to kill."
He drew a slow breath. "They call it the Darkwatch, don't they? And from what I gather… you and your colleagues have been quite industrious."
Ryan gave a slight tilt of his head, lips curling around the cigarette. "You could say that. A dark wizard in Romania. A disgraced Pureblood holed up in Costa Rica. Some old Death Eater playing hermit in the Alps." He exhaled a long stream of smoke, eyes dark. "They run. They all do. Makes no difference. Every one of them ends up the same." Another drag. "Face down in a puddle—or rotting in a shallow grave."
"But truth is, I'm not just here just for what you did, Mister Fudge," Ryan said, eyes narrowing. "Or even what you didn't do. I'm also here for what you were planning to do."
Fudge stiffened. His breath caught ever so slightly. A subtle intake, but Ryan caught it. The former Minister tried to recover, offering a thin, wavering smile.
"I—I haven't the faintest idea what you mean."
Ryan didn't reply at first. Instead, he raised his hand. Draped around his fingers was a rosary, the blood-streaked silver crucifix dangling against his palm.
"You know," Ryan said, "for a wizard, I never pegged you as the devout type. So, imagine my surprise when I found you sitting in pews and lighting candles on Sunday nights."
He let the crucifix swing once, gently. "Now, I've got no issue with a man finding God," he said. "Lord knows you've got plenty to atone for. But you and I both know you weren't there for salvation."
****
The heavy wooden doors of Westminster Cathedral creaked open, ushering in a flurry of wind and snow. Ice crystals scattered across the polished marble floor as the doors groaned shut behind him. Ryan unwrapped his scarf, the warmth inside brushing against his frozen cheeks, a welcome reprieve from the cold. Candlelight danced along the ancient stone, casting long, golden shadows across the medieval murals of saints and knights etched into the cathedral walls.
He brushed the frost from his coat and scanned the vast, empty nave. Silence reigned. Not a soul in sight. His gaze settled on the confessional booth tucked into the far corner, barely illuminated by the flicker of votive flames. The sharp taps of his loafers echoed down the long aisle as he made his way forward. He opened the booth door, stepped inside, and took his seat.
Crossing himself, Ryan inhaled deeply and exhaled with weight.
"Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It's been…"
A pause.
"It's been too long since my last confession."
Then a voice from beyond the grill. Calm, expectant.
"Tell me more, my child."
Ryan hands settled in his lap, fingers gradually stilling. "It's funny, this is my first time in London. Brooklyn's always been home, in all its loud, grimy glory. But this place, the smog, the damp stone, the way people don't meet your eyes. It all reminds me a little too much of where I came from."
"My late mother… what I remember of her, anyway—used to talk about this cathedral. Said she came here for Mass all the time before moving to New York. Told me she'd bring me here one day." He gave a hollow chuckle. "Guess in a way, she kept her word."
A silence followed—thick and weighty, as if even the walls were holding their breath.
"I was… am an orphan," Ryan said. "Just a dumb kid when they came in the dead of night. Zealots. Cultists. The kind of people who wrap themselves in robes and righteousness but worship something twisted. Something dark."
"I'm sorry to hear that," the priest replied gently. "I'm certain your parents dwell now in the Kingdom of God."
"I don't doubt it," Ryan murmured. He drew a slow breath, letting the memory settle. "My parents were good people. I don't remember what they did for work, not exactly, but I remember Dad was always home in time for dinner. He used to tell us stories about his day at the office. Had this best friend, too—some dolt who wouldn't shut up about how fascinating he found mugg—normal folk."
A faint smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. "Mom loved music. More than anything, she loved to sing. She'd play that old piano of ours, her voice filling the house while she taught me the notes. I guess… that's the one part of her I still carry."
A heavy silence settled between them. Ryan's eyes dropped for a moment. "I still lose sleep over it," he said. "The nightmares... they don't stop. I hear the door crash open. Dad yelling as he runs out. Mom pulling me into the closet, her hands shaking." He paused. The memory sharp behind his eyes. "She told me to stay quiet. To keep the door shut no matter what. No matter what I heard."
His jaw tightened.
"And then I heard it all. The screams. My father's first. Then hers. And then... nothing. Just silence."
A beat passed. Then he spoke again, quieter now.
"They found me, eventually. Cowards in hoods and masks. I thought they'd finish what they started." His jaw clenched. "But they didn't. And it wasn't mercy." He glanced aside. "They figured I was a squ—special case. Laughed in my face. Said I was a waste of a spell. Just a scared little kid who'd never grow into anything worth fearing."
His fingers curled into fists on his lap, knuckles whitening. "I didn't learn the truth until years later," he said. "My parents weren't radicals. They weren't rebels. They didn't speak out. They didn't even matter."
He stared ahead. Eyes distant. "They were collateral. A blood offering. Part of some sick initiation rite. Their deaths weren't justice. They weren't war. They were a message. Proof of loyalty to something vile."
He exhaled slowly, the air seeming colder around him. "In another life, I'd have grown up just another ghost in the system. A warm body pushing papers. A name no one remembered. But that wasn't the path laid out for me."
"The day after I turned ten, someone came to me. Said I had a choice. He wasn't a man so much as a shadow in a sharp suit—a devil if I've ever seen one." He chuckled darkly. "Said I could rot away in obscurity. Or I could become something else. Something that could change things. You can probably guess which one I chose."
He looked down at his hands.
"Looking back," Ryan began, "I used to lie awake wondering why they let me live. Those… Death Eaters."
On the other side of the confessional screen, he heard the priest draw a sharp breath.
"I'd stare at the cracked ceiling of that orphanage, trying to make sense of it. Was I spared for some divine reason? Some purpose?" His fingers flexed against his knee. "Or was I just a joke. A sick punchline for a world that's always been laughing at the wrong things."
He leaned back against the wood.
"I didn't know then. But I do now."
The priest cleared his throat. "Then perhaps you're ready, my child. If not for penance… for truth. Tell me what you've done."
Ryan inhaled, then exhaled slowly. "I'm not here to confess what I've done, Father," he said. "I'm here to be forgiven… for what I'm about to do."
There was a long pause on the other side. Then, carefully, "That's… not how this works. You can't seek absolution for sins you haven't committed."
Ryan gave a low chuckle, shaking his head as he slid a cigarette from the polished case nestled inside his blazer. He rolled it between his fingers, then placed it between his lips with practiced ease. From his pocket came a silver lighter—flip, spark—the flame flared, casting a brief glow across his face before he snapped it shut. He took a long drag, the ember flaring, then exhaled slowly. Smoke spilled from his mouth in a steady stream, coiling through the confessional like a slow, creeping fog that clung to the walls and silence alike.
"Guess that depends on how flexible your theology is."
Another breath of silence passed before Ryan spoke again.
"Tell me, Father… ever heard of Iscariot?"
Silence.
"Old, covert little division of the Vatican. Real charming group. Fanatics, mostly," Ryan said. "They hunt magical folk—doesn't matter if you're good, bad, or just trying to get by. They think it's all sin. All heresy. I've read the files. Some of them take a little too much pleasure in the hunt."
"They were a big deal back in the medieval days, when burning witches at the stake was all the rage," Ryan said, taking a slow drag from his cigarette. Smoke curled from his nostrils as he exhaled. "Then they fizzled out, faded into obscurity. That is, until Grindelwald and his merry band of lunatics decided the world would be better off without non-magic folk."
He paused, letting the weight of his words linger before taking another drag.
"The Vatican did what it had to do. Stepped in, made some hard calls to protect the public. And I'll be honest—I respected that. But then Voldemort crawled out of whatever pit he was rotting in, and your lot lost its mind. You didn't just fight monsters. You started becoming them."
"Now, it's not about justice anymore. It's an inquisition. You're hunting down innocents—children, families, bloodlines wiped out like a disease. And that's where we draw the line."
He pulled the cigarette from his lips, the ash smoldering at the tip.
"Which brings me to Cornelius Fudge. That name ring any bells?"
The priest remained silent.
"His file landed on my desk in bold red ink—you know the kind," Ryan said, taking another drag from his cigarette. "Cornelius Oswald Fudge. Former Minister of Magic. Got booted from power when he screwed the world sideways during his tenure and got tossed out on his ass for it." He flicked the ash with a tap of his finger. "Since then, he's been clawing his way back to relevance, like a rat chewing through concrete."
"At first, I figured I'd catch him in his office, nice and quiet, end it clean. One shot. No mess."
He leaned back slightly.
"But it turns out the man's been busy," Ryan said, his tone cooling to a simmer. "Secret meetings. Backdoor deals. Slipping your people names, security protocols, pressure points. All the pieces you'd need to dismantle the wizarding world from the inside."
He let the cigarette hang loosely between his fingers. "And what does he want in return? A few hits. Tie off some inconvenient loose ends. Knock down the competition. Clear a path so he can crawl his way back into power."
Ryan's eyes narrowed through the smoke, glinting through the grill.
"I'm here to tell you that ends tonight."
****
Fudge's face remained composed, but the cold sweat beading along his temple betrayed him. The twitch in his brow. The flicker of his eyes toward the coat rack, where his wand rested inside the breast pocket—told Ryan everything he needed to know. A pathetic plan, really. The man wouldn't have made it halfway out of his chair before the bullet reached him.
Fudge inhaled shakily, resting his elbows on the desk to steady himself.
"How... how did he die?"
Ryan crushed the last of his cigarette into the tray, embers hissing. He then he hurled the rosary in his hand across the room. The beads clattered against the wood with a dull, final thud, coming to rest in front of Fudge like an accusation made flesh.
He leaned forward. "Like a Goddamned sewer rat after a rainstorm."
****
A flash of silver sliced through the confessional wall like a reaper's scythe, the dagger missing Ryan's head by a breath. He jerked back, heart hammering, and drew his gun in one fluid motion. Muzzle flashes lit the wooden booth in staccato bursts as he fired through the wall. Splinters erupted in all directions.
Both men burst from the confessional—Ryan with his pistol raised, the priest with his blade in hand. The old man was quick, unnaturally so. He ducked, evading another shot, then lunged forward. The dagger slashed through the air. Ryan barely twisted away, but not in time to stop the priest from striking his hand. The gun flew from his grip, skidding across the marble floor and vanishing beneath the pews.
The priest lunged again, the blade driving toward Ryan's chest, but Ryan caught his wrist. They crashed into the rows of pews, wood splintering around them like kindling. Fists flew, the two men a tangle of limbs and fury, rolling across the floor as the battle turned primal. The priest grunted, straddling Ryan as he forced the dagger down, the tip inching toward Ryan's chest.
"Christus vivit. Christus regnat!" the priest muttered through the struggle.
Ryan gritted his teeth, every muscle in his arms straining. The blade trembled just inches from his heart. The young man slammed a sharp punch into the priest's throat. The old man choked, stumbling back with a strangled gasp just as Ryan rushed him and followed with a crushing uppercut that lifted him off his feet. The priest hit the ground but recovered quickly, lunging again—desperate, feral.
"Christus ab omni male te defenda!"
Ryan stepped back, caught the man's wrist mid-thrust, and drove a precise blow to his hand. The dagger clattered to the marble floor. With a sharp kick, Ryan sent the weapon skidding out of reach. He slammed his elbow into the priest's jaw with a brutal crack. The old man's head snapped to the side, lips splitting as blood spilled down his chin in a dark, wet stream. The priest reeled and swung wildly, but Ryan ducked under it and turned, flipping him over his shoulder. The old man landed flat on his back with a painful crack against the cold marble. A cry of pain escaping him.
Without pause, Ryan grabbed the back of the priest's robe and dragged him across the aisle toward the altar. The man kicked and struggled, but Ryan silenced him with a vicious right hook. Once. Then again. The priest's nose crumpled, blood pouring down his face as he groaned. Ryan hauled him up by the collar and drove his face into the edge of the baptismal font. The marble cracked under the force of the blow as pieces of shattered teeth fell to the floor.
Before the priest could cry out, Ryan gripped his head and slammed it into the water. The old man's legs kicked. He gurgled and thrashed, muffled shrieks rising in bubbles from the sacred basin. Ryan's grip tightened, arms trembling with effort as he forced him down. Seconds crawled. The struggle slowed.
Then stopped.
When the priest finally went limp, Ryan pulled him free and let his body fall to the floor with a wet thud. He stood there, panting, dripping with water, sweat and blood, staring down at the still corpse as the echoes of violence faded into silence.
"Requistcat de freakin' pace, asshole," Ryan muttered, breathless. His eyes flicked up, catching sight of the statue above the altar—stone eyes solemn, arms outstretched in silent judgment. He blinked, hesitated, then let out a sharp breath and crossed himself. Hands pressed together in a mock-prayer, he glanced upward.
"Yeah… sorry about that."
****
A heavy silence settled between them like smoke after gunfire. Ryan could see it—how pale Fudge had gone in the amber gloom, his skin washed out to a sickly grey beneath the sheen of sweat clinging to his face. It soaked through his collar, bled into the fine wool of his jacket, and his hands trembled subtly where they gripped the arms of his chair, knuckles white and taut. The gravity of the moment had finally caught up to him.
"Don't give me that look, Mister Fudge," Ryan said. "Or Cornelius, can I call you Cornelius?" He lifted the glass of whiskey from the table and took a slow sip. His pinky tapped once against the chilled crystal. "You knew this was coming. It was never a question of if, just when."
"And I wouldn't feel too sorry for your little friend in the habit," Ryan went on. "I don't know if you're just naïve or plain stupid, but even I know better than to think those bastards were ever going to help you once they got what they wanted."
He gave Fudge a pointed look, his tone sharpening.
"Iscariot's worse than the Death Eaters. At least they had a goal. These lunatics? They think every wizard is spawn of the devil. The second you outlived your usefulness, they'd have soaked you in gasoline and lit you up like a holiday display—no second thoughts, no prayers, just fire."
He then let his eyes fall to the liquid inside the glass, watching the amber swirl around the slowly melting orb of ice. "Ever hear that old saying? Evil thrives when good men do nothing." His gaze shifted to the former Minister. "You didn't just do nothing, Cornelius, you made apathy policy. You failed your chair. You failed your constituents. You let darkness worm its way into your cabinet, into every branch of power, while you sat in that office pretending everything was fine."
Fudge said nothing. His breath rasped slightly in his throat.
Ryan set the glass down gently, the clink sharp in the still room. "Instead of Azkaban, or the kiss of a Dementor, they gave you a desk, a title, and the illusion of dignity." He stood, reaching for his sidearm. The weight of it was familiar in his palm, the matte black finish catching a glint of light.
"Now I'm not saying you're the worst of them," he continued. "There are names far darker than yours. And they'll be held accountable—one by one." He looked over his shoulder with a half-smile. "Would've liked to be the one to put a bullet between Umbridge's eyes, honestly. That bitch getting smoked by a squib would have been the cherry up top. But instead… I got stuck with you."
"Wait—y-you're not seriously going through with this, are you?" Fudge stammered, hands rising in protest. "There must be some sort of mistake."
Ryan didn't answer right away. Instead, he reached into his jacket and retrieved a weathered manila folder. Bold red letters marked the front: CLASSIFIED. He flipped it open with one hand and tossed it onto Fudge's desk. The folder landed with a dull thud. Fudge flinched, then stared down. His own face stared back at him from the first page. His photo. Line after line of tightly typed intelligence—past movements, contacts, affiliations. At the top, stamped clear as day in thick black ink: EXECUTE.
"That you, old man?" Ryan asked, casually. "Because I'm fairly certain there isn't another Cornelius Oswald Fudge floating around the city who just so happens to be the disgraced former Minister of Magic. But hey—let me know if I'm wrong."
Fudge scrambled for any remaining sense of authority. "Hold on, surely that still carries weight! I was Minister of Magic!"
Ryan raised an eyebrow, the corner of his mouth twitching with something between disbelief and amusement. "And?"
"My death would send shockwaves through London—through all of Britain!" Fudge pressed. "Kingsley Shacklebolt—he's a man of integrity, a man of honor! He'd never sign off on this."
Ryan cocked his head. "That was before you got in bed with the Church," he said flatly. "Before you whored state secrets to a bunch of robed fanatics in exchange for a seat at a table you were never going to reach."
He pulled the slide on his pistol, chambering a round with a sharp, metallic clack. The sound echoed across the room like a gavel falling in court.
"You really thought we wouldn't notice?" Ryan stepped closer. "That Shacklebolt wouldn't see your name come up on a hit list, along with every member of his cabinet?" He leaned in, eyes like cold steel. "You didn't just overplay your hand, Fudge. You bet the house—and lost."
"But like I said," Ryan raised the pistol, leveling it with Fudge's chest, "not that it would've mattered."
The old man lurched to his feet, hands raised in a desperate bid for mercy, but Ryan didn't flinch.
"There was a bullet with your name on it long before you ever stepped foot in that cathedral," he continued coldly. "You. And the dozens of others like you. The ones responsible for the blood spilled on both sides—wizard and Muggle alike. The same blood on your hands. All those lives lost while you sat in that chair, watching it unfold. Doing nothing. Or worse—pretending it wasn't happening."
Ryan's grip tightened slightly on the pistol. "A man once said, to build a new world, you have to tear the old one down. Call this what you like—justice, revenge, retribution. To me? It's just cleaning house." His eyes narrowed. "And that little stunt you pulled with the Church? That just made things a hell of a lot easier."
Fudge's lip curled, his face flushing red with fury. "On my hands?" he spat. "You self-righteous brat. You're just like the rest of them. All of you. The press. The so-called heroes. You point your bloody fingers and cast judgment, but none of you understand. I made the hard decisions. I preserved order. I prevented chaos from consuming everything."
His voice cracked, but his posture remained rigid.
"I held the wizarding world together by sheer force of will. And this is what I get in return? Cast down, thrown in the gutter, and lined up like a dog for execution?" His chest heaved. "I did what had to be done."
"Blah, blah, blah," Ryan muttered, flat with disdain. "I've read the damned files. You can choke on the gas you pump into your own lungs to sleep a little better at night, but you don't get to rewrite what you did."
He kept the barrel leveled, finger tightening over the trigger.
"You didn't have to bury a son, like Amos Diggory did," Ryan said. "Didn't have to hold a lifeless body in your arms, or stare down the hollow eyes of parents who lost their children at the Battle of Hogwarts."
Fudge's eyes widened at the name.
"You didn't rot in a cell in Azkaban like Rubeus Hagrid, or Sirius Black, shackled and forgotten for crimes they didn't commit. You didn't watch the world burn while being told to smile for the cameras and wave."
Ryan took a steady breath, his expression unreadable. "I could list every name, every injustice, and it still wouldn't scratch the surface of how profoundly you screwed this world."
He stared down the sights of the gun.
"Everyone thinks they're the hero of their own story, Cornelius," Ryan said quietly, almost with pity. "But stories end—some in glory, others in silence."
His eyes narrowed just enough to darken his expression.
"And yours?" he said. "Yours just hit the final page."
"No, wait—"
That was the last thing Cornelius Fudge ever said.
The pistol jolted in Ryan's grip. The slide snapped back with a sharp crack. Muzzle flashes lit the office like strobe lights. Brass casings clattered to the floor. Fudge reeled backward, bullets ripping through silk and flesh. The window behind him shattered on the first shot. The force knocked him through it—his weight dragging shards of glass in a rainstorm of glittering death.
A sickening crunch echoed from below.
Ryan stepped forward and looked down through the jagged frame. Far beneath, Fudge's body lay twisted across the marble atrium floor. Blood spread in a wide, dark halo. Screams erupted as wizards and clerks rushed to the scene. A woman cried out.
He turned from the shattered window, the cold night air brushing against his back. With precise, measured calm, Ryan slipped the pistol back into the holster beneath his blazer. Then he reached for the manila folder and struck his lighter. Flames licked the corner, devouring the red lettering as the paper blackened and crumbled. He dropped it to the floor, letting the ashes scatter.
From his coat, he retrieved a sleek, obsidian-black phone, its surface gleaming in the dim light. He flipped it open and dialed. As the tone rang out, he moved to the door, opening it. The corridor beyond remained still.
He raised the phone to his ear. The line clicked. A voice came through.
"It's done," Ryan said.
"Congratulations, Mister Ashford," a woman replied. "Welcome to Section XIII."
Ryan snapped the phone shut and stepped into the stairwell. He didn't look back.
****
The woman lowered the receiver with practiced ease. The faint click echoing in the dimly lit room. Her gaze shifted to the screen in front of her, pale light casting faint shadows across her face. Her fingers moved swiftly across the white keyboard, deliberate and silent.
On the screen, a line of text appeared in blinking green:
Ryan Ashford. Spectre status confirmed.
She paused only a moment before typing the final line:
Codename: Nosferatu.
The screen dimmed as the words settled into place.