For 40 + advance chapter: patreon.com/Snowing_Melody
Upon hearing Hermione's dismissal of the apple juice quality, Cornelius Fudge's eye twitched. He nodded stiffly, deciding to abandon the pleasantries and get straight to the point.
He reached into his mahogany desk drawer and withdrew a small, swirling crystal ball. He placed it on a velvet stand between them. With a gentle, practiced tap of his wand, the chaotic grey mist inside dissipated.
The scene cleared instantly. It was the graveyard. The cauldron. The steam rising. The horrific, pale, noseless face of Lord Voldemort rising from the depths.
"Miss Granger," Fudge asked, his voice tight, beads of sweat glistening on his upper lip. "Did you foresee all of this?"
Hermione leaned back, her expression bored. "That's right."
Fudge's expression turned sour, as if the apple juice had curdled in his stomach. He coughed lightly, adjusting his lime-green bowler hat on the desk, trying to hide his profound unease.
"But, Miss Granger," he began, adopting a tone of forced reason. "Didn't Deputy Director Lockhart destroy the Dark Lord's Horcruxes last year? We had a press conference. It was very thorough. Logically speaking, this kind of thing… a resurrection… it should not be possible."
Hermione looked at the Minister with undisguised amusement. "So what?" she countered, her voice cutting through his denial. "Minister Fudge, are you trying to make me admit that my prediction was wrong just because it's inconvenient for your administration?"
Fudge was left speechless by her bluntness. He spluttered, waving his hands rapidly. "No, no, no! That's not what I meant at all!"
He leaned in, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "But, Miss Granger, surely you understand? The wizarding world needs stability. The people need peace. And I…" He paused, correcting himself internally. I need to be re-elected. "…I need to ensure order is maintained."
"Such a terrible prophecy," Fudge continued, his voice trembling slightly. "Even if it were true, it should not be announced to the public in a classroom full of impressionable children. Won't this cause panic? Moreover, prophecy is inherently full of uncertainty. If we want the public to believe such a… radical claim, I'm afraid we would need more. More detailed information. Dates. Locations. Witnesses."
Hermione couldn't help it. She laughed out loud, a sharp, cynical sound that echoed in the plush office.
"Minister Fudge," she said, her tone dripping with sarcasm. "You're not joking with me, are you?"
She gestured to the crystal ball. "Have you ever seen a prophecy that allows you to know whatever you want to know, on demand? Do you think prophecy is like ordering food at a restaurant? You can't just look at the menu and say, 'I'll have the Dark Lord's return, but hold the panic, and add a side of exact coordinates.'"
Hermione spread her hands, her face twisting into an exaggerated expression of mock apology. "Sorry, Minister. This isn't a magic restaurant. We don't offer customized prophecy services. If you want a tailored future, turn right after you leave—the Daily Prophet welcomes you. They're much better at writing fiction than I am."
She paused, adding a final jab. "By the way, remember to make an appointment in advance. After all, there are far more people who read newspapers than those who read true prophecies."
Fudge's face turned a mottled red. He knew she was mocking him. He knew his request was unrealistic. But his desperation outweighed his logic.
"Miss Granger," he said, his voice dropping to a low, threatening register. "In that case, we can only treat your prediction as a rumor. A malicious falsehood."
He stood up, walking to the window to avoid her gaze. "If you admit that your prediction was wrong—a silly classroom prank—you can go back to school. Continue your life. Graduate. Forget this ever happened."
He turned back, his eyes cold. "But if you refuse, we will consider you to be spreading terror and deliberately causing public unrest. Under the current statutes, you may be expelled from Hogwarts. Your wand snapped. You could be banned from practicing magic for life and confined to your home."
The threat hung heavy in the air.
Hermione didn't flinch. She leaned back, swinging her legs, her tone languid and unbothered. "Minister Fudge, is that all you wanted to say? Expulsion? House arrest? How… quaint."
Fudge stared at her. He expected tears. He expected fear. He saw only a terrifying, abyssal indifference.
He shook his head, picked up his hat, and turned to the door. Before leaving, he paused, looking back one last time. "Miss Granger, I hope you will give my suggestion a second thought. For your own sake."
He walked out.
Moments later, the door was pushed open again.
Dolores Umbridge waddled in. She was flanked by two burly Aurors, men with scarred faces and hard eyes. They moved with the steady, predatory grace of veterans. Hermione glanced at them, her magical senses flaring. Elites, she noted. Second only to Moody or Kingsley. She brought the heavy hitters to interrogate a thirteen-year-old.
Umbridge walked up to Hermione, her broad, flabby face beaming with undisguised smugness. She looked like a cat that had finally cornered a particularly troublesome mouse.
"Miss Granger," she simpered, her voice sickly sweet. "Didn't I tell you? Once we're at the Ministry of Magic, the rules change. I have plenty of ways to deal with you here."
She smoothed her pink cardigan. "Now, you will be formally interrogated by the Ministry as a suspect in spreading seditious rumors regarding the Dark Lord."
The Reception Room.
The atmosphere outside was suffocating. Fudge, Snape, Lockhart, and "Ethan Hunt" sat in uncomfortable silence.
Snape stared at the closed door of the interrogation room, his brow furrowed, his face etched with a look of profound, intense worry.
Fudge, misinterpreting the look entirely, broke the silence with a light cough.
"Professor Snape," Fudge said soothingly, pouring himself a drink. "You don't need to worry too much. The Ministry is just doing its job. We're just asking some questions. Miss Granger is an underage wizard, after all. We won't do anything… permanent."
Fudge smiled, trying his best to appear the benevolent leader. "We'll just scare her a little. Teach her not to talk nonsense. Honestly, Hogwarts didn't need to send you all this way just to protect her."
Upon hearing this, Snape scoffed. The sound was harsh, like tearing parchment. He turned his cold, black eyes onto the Minister.
"You think I'm here to protect her?"
Fudge blinked, completely bewildered. "Well… aren't you?"
Snape shook his head slowly, a look of grim fatalism on his face. He didn't answer. He just looked back at the door, praying that the Ministry building would still be standing in an hour.
The Interrogation Room.
Hermione sat in the hard wooden chair, watching Umbridge with an air of nonchalance that infuriated the Undersecretary.
"Minister Umbridge," Hermione chuckled softly, "the way you're phrasing things makes it sound like I'm already guilty. What, does the Ministry of Magic now judge cases without evidence? Do you convict people based solely on your own insecurities?"
Umbridge's face darkened, the fake smile vanishing.
"Miss Granger, please watch your words!" she shrieked. "This is the Ministry of Magic, not a classroom! You cannot run wild here!"
She gestured sharply to the two Aurors looming behind her. "These men will monitor your interrogation. If you are uncooperative, they have the right to take coercive measures."
Hermione raised an eyebrow. She looked at the Aurors, then back at Umbridge.
"Coercive measures?" She smirked. "I wonder what measures Minister Umbridge intends to take? Is it the Cruciatus Curse? Or perhaps something more subtle? A piercing hex? A soul-severing charm?"
She spoke of torture as casually as one might discuss the weather.
Umbridge trembled with rage. Her authority was being mocked, her threats ignored. She had never met a child so utterly devoid of fear.
"Miss Granger, don't be stubborn! You are asking for trouble!" Umbridge hissed through gritted teeth. "I am giving you one last chance. Confess honestly. Admit you lied. Tell us why you wanted to spread panic, and you might get leniency. Otherwise, you will face the most severe punishment the Ministry can administer!"
Hermione looked up, her eyes flashing with a cold, dangerous light. "I'll say it again. It is not a rumor. It is a prophecy."
A ruthless, sadistic glint flashed in Umbridge's pouchy eyes. "Very well, Miss Granger. It seems you won't shed a tear until you see the coffin."
"Since that is the case," Umbridge whispered, "don't blame me for being impolite."
She turned and winked at the two Aurors. They stepped forward, flanking Hermione, their wands drawn, radiating oppressive magical pressure.
Umbridge looked at Hermione smugly, anticipating the begging, the crying, the breaking.
"Now," she said softly, reaching into her purse. She pulled out a long, thin black quill with an unusually sharp point. She placed it on the parchment.
"Write down—in detail—the whole process of how you fabricated these rumors to spread panic."
She handed the black quill to Hermione.
As Hermione's fingers closed around the cold shaft of the quill, a sly, triumphant smile flashed in Umbridge's eyes.