To put it bluntly, the Eight Potters operation went exceedingly well.
The fact that they hadn't been forewarned was undoubtedly the biggest factor.
Additionally, Dumbledore's presence worked to their advantage.
The Death Eaters patrolling around the Dursleys' house judged they couldn't handle Dumbledore upon seeing him and waited for Voldemort's arrival rather than immediately giving chase.
That time loss worked in Harry's favor, and by the time Voldemort arrived, everyone had already reached their destinations.
Several days had passed since then.
Until Harry turned seventeen, the Trace prevented him from moving.
In other words, he had no choice but to stay holed up while leaving all Order activities to his companions.
No, even if he could move, what could he do?
The Horcrux hunt they were supposed to undertake had already become meaningless.
If Dumbledore's speculation was correct, Mirabelle had already found and destroyed most of them.
That same Mirabelle was currently outside Britain, leaving them with no moves to make.
Harry simply accumulated frustration amid the meaninglessly passing days.
But time showed Harry no mercy, continuing to march forward relentlessly.
And with it, the situation changed moment by moment.
News of Scrimgeour's death and the Ministry's fall came a mere three days later, in the midst of Bill and Fleur's wedding—the worst possible tidings.
One month since Voldemort seized control of the Ministry—the British wizarding world had become hell itself.
A lone man walked through the suburbs shrouded in eerie fog.
His hand gripped his wand firmly, his expression rigid.
Just one month ago, this town had been the very picture of peace, yet now scarcely anyone could be seen.
Recently, "snatchers" had begun appearing frequently in the area, making it impossible to even venture outside.
Snatchers—corrupt wizards who sided with the Dark Lord.
They captured Muggle-born wizards and received rewards for delivering them to the Ministry.
Naturally, the fate awaiting Muggle-borns handed over to the Ministry went without saying—they would be subjected to unjust trials and fed to the Dementors.
This man—a twenty-two-year-old wizard named Alan Maume—was a former Hufflepuff who had graduated from Hogwarts four years ago.
He himself was a half-blood wizard, but his beloved wife was Muggle-born... making her their prey.
His wife was hiding in the basement, but that might soon reach its limit.
Snatchers had increased considerably lately, and the area was becoming suspicious.
It was time to consider relocating.
Of course, even being half-blood didn't guarantee safety.
Siding with Dumbledore alone could get one killed by Death Eaters.
But Alan didn't fear his own death.
What he feared most was his beloved wife falling into their hands.
His wife was his hope.
Come to think of it, perhaps he'd been drawn to her from the moment they first met in childhood.
Strong-willed, meddlesome, kinder than anyone.
To him, she was like a sister, like a younger sibling, and even like a mother.
Never naturally strong-willed himself—which was why he'd been sorted into Hufflepuff—she had always pulled him along and supported him.
When neighborhood bullies had tormented him, she had always been the one to save him.
So now it was his turn to protect her.
He would do anything to protect that smile. He'd show them—anything at all.
Even if it meant his own destruction.
"...Good, no one nearby for now."
Alan breathed a sigh of relief and returned home.
Considering the danger of being followed, he always Apparated home.
The scenery flowed past with a pulling sensation, and he arrived at his familiar house.
And there lay his devastated home.
Chairs and tables were strewn across the floor, furniture destroyed, signs of rude trampling everywhere.
His wife would never do such a thing, of course.
There hadn't been an earthquake either.
Then what? What had happened?
A terrible premonition sent cold sweat down Alan's face as he paled and broke into a run.
Please—let her still be safe... don't let them notice the basement!
He ran toward the basement praying this, but what awaited him was a scene that betrayed all hope.
The basement door stood open...! No, it had been broken!
"Damn it! No... no!"
Please... I'm begging you, don't lay a hand on my wife!
If you want money, I'll give you as much as you want!
If it's anything else, you can have whatever you need!
So please, please just...!
He opened the basement door with such fervent wishes—and saw his beloved wife restrained by strange men.
"Hehehe, hey, don't struggle. You can't escape anymore!"
"This is good work indeed. Just taking Muggle-borns away gets us rewards—praise be to You-Know-Who."
The men chattered away saying whatever they pleased.
Without any consideration for their victim, for their own desires... just to warm their pockets with a pittance, they were trying to take away his beloved.
This was no joke—Alan flew into a rage.
His wife wasn't someone these snatchers could touch with their filthy hands.
She wasn't someone who should be sacrificed for such worthless money!
"You bastaaards! Let go of her!"
Alan raged and fired a Stunning Spell at one of the men.
But he was outnumbered. Struck by spells from the remaining men, he tumbled ungracefully across the floor.
Further hit by a Binding Curse from another man, he became completely unable to move.
A snatcher approached the immobilized Alan with a vulgar smile.
"Oi, pretty boy, this your wife?
Too bad for you. We gotta take mudbloods to the Ministry.
Nah, we feel real bad about it too. It pains our hearts, it does."
The snatcher spoke with a face that looked nothing like he meant it.
Alan glared at him but opened his mouth in supplication.
"P-please... my wife... save my wife...
If you want something, I'll give you anything... so please..."
"Can't do that, see. We got an important job from the Ministry.
It's necessary work to purify the wizarding world by eliminating all the mudblood filth."
The snatcher spoke with an amused smile, and the other men laughed raucously.
For people like them, the current wizarding world was an extremely easy place.
Anything was permitted against mudbloods.
Hurting them, having a little "taste"—there were no consequences.
After all, the very Ministry backed their actions, so no one could protest.
The law that should have maintained order had already lost that role.
"Don't worry though. We'll deliver your wife proper-like."
"And have a taste while we're at it, right?"
"Obviously. That's what I'm doing this snatching for."
Letting out filthy laughter, the men spoke freely.
Alan simply felt frustrated.
At his own powerlessness, unable to even protect his beloved.
At the Dark Lord who had let such lawless men run rampant.
And at the Ministry that had yielded to such a lord.
He hated everything, even thinking how wonderful it would be if hatred alone could kill.
"Well, that's how it is. Next time find yourself a wizard woman who ain't Muggle-born."
"Don't be ridiculous! No woman surpasses her, not for me..."
"Shut up!"
The snatcher's boot connected with Alan's face, breaking his teeth.
Having silenced Alan thus, the man grabbed his wife's hair with dirty hands and lifted her up.
"See ya, pretty boy. Curse yourself for choosing a mudblood."
"Oi, let's take her quick. I can't wait no more!"
"Don't rush, don't rush, you horny monkey. What are you, an ape?"
Alan understood all too well what would happen to his wife next.
He understood even though he didn't want to.
Stop... please, stop this.
Not her, please...
Alan's prayers went unanswered, and after doing as they pleased, the men Disapparated.
Nothing could stop them.
The law that should judge them was now on their side.
This was the wizarding world's justice now.
"Damn... damn it... bastards! Bastards!"
Alan wept, cursing his immobile body as he simply screamed.
He bit through his lip, tears obscured his vision, and only loss and powerlessness dominated his entire body.
This... was this the law?! Was this justice?!
Could such things be permitted?!
"Someone... anyone... anyone at all..."
—Kill those bastards...!
His cry of hatred scattered emptily without reaching anyone.
A courtroom inside the Ministry of Magic.
A terrifying scene unfolded there.
In the outer corridor, Dementors in black hoods swarmed, moving back and forth as if selecting prey.
Amidst this, the defendants—Muggle-borns who had been brought here—huddled together trembling, most covering their faces with their arms.
They were trying to protect themselves even a little from the Dementors' vile mouths.
In the courtroom beyond—no, calling it a courtroom was too generous for this dungeon—even more Dementors existed.
The narrow space made one feel faint just entering it, and at the judge's seat sat Umbridge with a beaming smile.
At her feet, a silver cat paced back and forth, protecting those on the judge's side from the despair radiating from the Dementors.
What appeared to be Umbridge's Patronus shone annoyingly bright with the supreme joy of being able to wield the utterly warped laws she had helped create.
"Mary Elizabeth Cattermole, is it?"
Umbridge's saccharine, smooth voice echoed.
Mrs. Cattermole, to whom the question was directed, sat in the chair placed in the center... no, was bound to it.
Chains emerged from the chair's armrests, immobilizing her.
"Wife of Reginald Cattermole from Magical Maintenance?"
"That's right! She's my wife!"
A man who had been sitting in the gallery stood up and raised his voice.
But Umbridge merely glanced in that direction and continued as if he didn't exist.
"Mother of Maisie, Ellie, and Alfred Cattermole?"
"M-my children are frightened... thinking I might not come home..."
"Oh dear, oh dear, you mustn't say such things. What good is it if you, their mother, are so weak?
You must try harder. Right?"
Umbridge spoke as if encouraging the disheartened Mrs. Cattermole.
Of course, since Umbridge herself was currently the one cornering her, this had zero persuasive power and was merely disingenuous.
"Mrs. Cattermole, when you arrived at the Ministry today, we confiscated your wand.
Nine inches, cherry wood, unicorn hair core. Do you know what this description refers to?"
Mrs. Cattermole nodded at Umbridge's explanation.
How could she not know?
After all, it was her own wand that had been with her since she bought it at Ollivanders' at age eleven.
However, having asked something obvious, Umbridge spoke as if no such fact existed.
"Could you tell us which witch or wizard you stole this wand from?"
"I... stole it...!?
No, I-I didn't steal it from anyone.
I-I bought it. When I was eleven, the wand chose me."
The wand chooses the wizard—every wizard knows this.
Accused of such baseless theft, the lady let out a whimper, and seeing this, Umbridge laughed like a delighted little girl.
Moreover, Umbridge leaned forward to better see her prey's miserable state, her face twisted with happiness.
"No. No, I don't think so, Mrs. Cattermole.
Wands only choose witches and wizards. You are not a witch, are you?
We have your response to the questionnaire we sent you right here."
Umbridge received the questionnaire from Mafalda beside her and spoke in an oddly high voice.
"Parents' occupation: greengrocer."
Saying this, Umbridge cackled for some reason.
"There's no such job as greengrocer in the wizarding world.
In other words, you're a Muggle, Mrs. Cattermole."
"T-true, my parents aren't magical!
But I am..."
"You are... what? Don't tell me you're going to lie and say you're a witch despite having Muggle parents?
No, no, no, that won't do. Lying is a very bad thing.
Being a witch with Muggle parents is impossible."
Though she surely knew Muggle-born witches existed, Umbridge completely ignored that fact.
The truth didn't matter. What was important to her now was only how much she could torment this prey and see their agonized face.
The husband shouting something from the gallery only improved her mood.
Umbridge smiled even more gleefully, and the Patronus cat shone even brighter.
"Now Mrs. Cattermole, lying will only make your crime heavier.
Tell the truth quickly."
"I-I am telling the truth..."
"Oh my, still continuing the lies? If their mother is such a liar, it won't be good for the children's education either.
Perhaps we should ask the children instead? Is your mother a Muggle?"
Her face distorted with increasingly perverse joy, Umbridge whispered in a sweet voice.
But the content was tantamount to a threat.
She was implying that if Mrs. Cattermole didn't confess, she'd go after the children.
"W-wait! Please, please, just spare the children...!"
"Oh my, how unflattering. Making it sound like I'd harm children—do I look like such a terrible person?"
That face, resembling a toad, looked even more toad-like when twisted with delight.
For a moment, Mrs. Cattermole had a vision of a long tongue emerging from her mouth to snatch flies.
"I feel terrible about this too. But this is all for your sake.
Nothing good comes from lying. That's why I'm hardening my heart to tell you this for your own good."
Anyone could tell from her face that this wasn't sincere.
No, perhaps she wasn't even trying to hide it from the start.
Umbridge gazed at the sobbing Mrs. Cattermole as if watching an amusing toy.
"Now, tell the truth. Who did you steal it from?"
Of course, Mrs. Cattermole had no answer to that question.
Since she hadn't stolen it from anyone, there was no way she could answer.
But if she didn't answer, this woman would surely truly harm the children.
The single-minded desire to protect her children... and perhaps the fact that her thinking capacity had been stolen away in this abnormal space filled with Dementors was also a factor.
With scattered thoughts, Mrs. Cattermole uttered a lie she should never have told.
"F-from Mr. Ollivander... I took it from Mr. Ollivander's shop..."
"My goodness!"
At Mrs. Cattermole's lie, Umbridge beamed and leaned forward.
As if this moment was her supreme happiness, her entire body filled with joy.
In contrast, Mr. Cattermole in the gallery shouted "No!" but it didn't reach his wife.
"My, my! My my my!
So you're admitting it then? Admitting you shamelessly stole a wand?"
"Y-yes... I admit it... I admit it, so please, just spare the children..."
Like a girl who'd received a new doll, Umbridge jumped up and down on her tiptoes, hopping about.
She appeared utterly overjoyed, unable to contain herself.
"Of course, of course you did. You're a Muggle, so naturally you stole the wand.
My predictions have never been wrong."
Having finally ensnared her prey, Umbridge pranced about, speaking in an even higher voice than usual.
And to deliver the final blow to her crushed prey, she pronounced the merciless sentence.
"Then you'll have to go to Azkaban."
"Azkaban?! N-no... surely that's too severe a punishment for...?!"
"Mm-mm, no no no, what you did is completely unforgivable.
We can't have criminals running free. Proper justice must be served, mustn't it?"
A Dementor grasped Mrs. Cattermole's arm as despair twisted her face.
Its face hidden beneath a hood, that creature with its rattling breathing was poison merely by proximity.
Mrs. Cattermole was robbed even of the will to resist and was dragged away like a puppet with cut strings.
Of course, Mr. Cattermole wouldn't remain silent about this.
He pointed his wand at the Dementor in fury, but as if predicted, a Stunning Spell from the judge's bench struck him, rendering him immobile.
"No... nooooo!
Help! Someone help! Anyone! You there!
I don't want Azkabaaaan!!"
As if that scream were the finest music, Umbridge closed her eyes rapturously and listened.
She swayed her body as if to a rhythm, savored the screams fully until they could no longer be heard, then exhaled a satisfied sigh.
But not yet—the fun was only beginning. Many more delicious prey still remained.
"Next, please."
The girlish, saccharine voice called for the next prey.
These events were nothing particularly special as tragedies go.
In the British wizarding world under Voldemort's control, they were commonplace—merely one among countless common tragedies.
***
If you want to read 10 chapters ahead or support me, visit my p.a.t.r.e.o.n.c.o.m /Well_being