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Hermione looked at the young man standing before her. "Ethan Hunt" was the picture of magical law enforcement excellence: tall, handsome, with a jawline you could cut glass on and a smile that radiated justice and integrity.
But beneath the skin, the soul was pitch black.
It was Tom Riddle. The Dark Lord Voldemort.
To facilitate her surveillance of Lockhart—and to keep her pet dark lord busy—Hermione had used the grimoire to perform a high-level Soul Reshaping ritual. She had crafted a new physical identity for him, completely severing his connection to the snake-like visage of his past.
Under Lockhart's patronage, Tom had joined the Ministry as an "outstanding recruit." He was now a registered Auror.
Hermione suppressed a snort of laughter. Voldemort has finally become a productive member of society, she mused. He's paying taxes. He's filling out paperwork. He's arresting dark wizards. If I told Dumbledore, the old man would have a stroke.
Umbridge, oblivious to the fact that she was threatening a girl who treated Voldemort like a Pokémon, gave a sickly sweet, forced smile.
"Miss Granger," she simpered, her voice dripping with poison. "It is good to be quick-witted. You may use your silver tongue here at school, but once we arrive at the Ministry… well, things are different. We have plenty of ways to make disobedient little wizards behave."
The room went dead silent.
Lockhart, Snape, and "Ethan Hunt" all looked at Umbridge with a mixture of pity and disbelief.
This stupid woman is actively courting death, Snape thought, his face impassive.
Please, Tom Riddle thought behind his sunny facade, keep talking. I want to see what spell she uses to skin you.
Lockhart decided to intervene. Not to save Hermione, but to save the Ministry's reception room from becoming a slaughterhouse. He cleared his throat, stepping into the tension with practiced ease.
"Madam Umbridge," Lockhart said, his voice dropping an octave to a tone of serious, professional rebuke. "I believe your statement is inappropriate. As an official institution, the Ministry of Magic operates under the rule of law, not intimidation. We cannot simply 'break the program' because we dislike a student's tone."
Umbridge's mouth snapped shut. She glared at him, but she said nothing.
She could ignore Snape. She could bully junior officials. But Gilderoy Lockhart was untouchable.
Since taking the Deputy Director position, Lockhart had undergone a transformation. He was no longer just a celebrity author; he was a political juggernaut. He had hunted down three A-list dark wizards in his first month, displaying a ruthlessness that rivaled Alastor Moody. His popularity was skyrocketing. He was competent, he was dangerous, and he had the public eating out of his hand.
Umbridge knew that if she crossed him, he wouldn't curse her; he would destroy her reputation in the Daily Prophet by breakfast.
"Fine," she spat, adjusting her pink cardigan.
"Excellent," "Ethan Hunt" said, breaking the silence with a cheerful, can-do attitude that was terrifyingly convincing. "Now that we are all on the same page, shall we depart?"
The Gates of Hogwarts.
The group walked to the boundary line where the anti-Apparition wards ended. Hermione took the lead. After the train incident last year, Dumbledore had pulled strings to get her an unconditional Apparition license. She was legal.
"See you there," Hermione said. With a loud CRACK, she vanished.
Snape followed with a swirl of black cloak. Umbridge vanished with a soft pop.
Only Lockhart and "Ethan" remained.
Lockhart looked at his subordinate, scratching the back of his neck awkwardly. The great monster hunter flushed slightly. "Um, Ethan… you know, I've never been very… precise… with my Apparition. I'd hate to splinch my eyebrows off before a meeting with the Minister."
Tom Riddle smiled—a smile that didn't reach his cold, dead eyes. "It is quite alright, Director. I will facilitate side-along Apparition."
"Excellent. Thank you, Ethan."
Lockhart grabbed the Dark Lord's arm.
The indignity, Riddle thought. I used to fly without a broom. Now I am a taxi service for a peacock.
CRACK.
The Ministry of Magic, Atrium.
The golden gates opened, and the group stepped into the bustle of the Ministry Atrium. The air smelled of ozone, burning paper, and bureaucracy.
As they walked toward the elevators, the difference in status became painfully obvious.
Wizards and witches hurried past, clutching memos. When they saw Umbridge, they nodded politely, murmuring, "Undersecretary," but their eyes were cold, filled with undisguised loathing. Umbridge walked with her nose in the air, ignoring the rabble.
Then they noticed Lockhart. The atmosphere shifted instantly.
"Good morning, Mr. Lockhart!"
"Director! You look dashing today!"
"Oh my goodness, it's Gilderoy! Director Lockhart, could you sign my copy of Voyages with Vampires?"
Lockhart slowed his pace, flashing his trademark, blindingly white smile. He waved gracefully to the crowd. "Thank you! Thank you for your support! Please, keep up the good work!"
He signed a parchment for a blushing witch, winked at an old wizard, and moved with the grace of a seasoned politician.
Hermione watched him from the back of the group. He's getting better, she noted. The empty boasting is gone. He's replaced it with humility and approachability. He's realized that being 'the people's hero' is a safer shield than any memory charm.
The Minister's Office.
The elevator ride was silent. They stepped out onto the top floor, walking down a plush, carpeted corridor to the Minister's suite.
The door swung open, and a short, stout man in a pinstriped suit bustled forward.
"Miss Hermione Granger! I have heard so much about you! It is a delight, truly a delight!"
Cornelius Fudge's round face was glistening with sweat and enthusiasm. He shook Hermione's hand vigorously. "I am Cornelius Fudge. Minister for Magic. Please, please, have a seat."
He guided her to a velvet sofa as if she were a visiting dignitary, completely ignoring his own Undersecretary.
"I have always heard that Miss Granger is a once-in-a-century talent," Fudge gushed, pouring on the flattery. "Seeing you today, I can confirm the rumors do not do you justice. You have a presence, my dear, a real presence!"
Hermione sat down, smoothing her robes. She smiled faintly. "You are too kind, Minister."
"Someone!" Fudge snapped his fingers. "Pour Miss Granger a drink! Pumpkin juice! The best we have!"
A house-elf popped into existence, balancing a tray with a goblet of orange liquid.
Hermione looked at the juice. She didn't move to take it.
"I don't like pumpkin juice," she said calmly, her voice cutting through Fudge's babble. "I want apple juice."
The room froze. It was a petty, small request, but in the language of power, it was a test.
Fudge paused, his smile faltering for a microsecond. Then he waved his hand frantically at the elf. "You heard her! Change it! Apple juice! Immediately!"
The elf vanished and reappeared seconds later with a crystal glass of clear apple juice.
Hermione nodded, satisfied. She took a sip, letting the silence stretch just long enough to be uncomfortable.
"Minister Fudge," she said, setting the glass down with a soft clink. "Let's skip the pleasantries. I don't think you summoned me all the way from Scotland just to critique the quality of the Ministry's catering."
She leaned forward, her eyes locking onto his.
"Speak frankly. What are you so afraid of?"