"You're covering for him!"
Rufus Scrimgeour stormed across the ornate carpet, his heavy boots thudding as he burst into the Minister's office with surprising speed for a man his age. His fierce entrance startled Cornelius Fudge, who nearly spilled his tea.
"What's gotten into you now? Calm down, Scrimgeour, have a seat and talk it through," Fudge said, forcing a placating smile.
"So many wizards have gone missing, and the only suspect we have is Charles Gold—yet you stopped the Aurors from arresting him!"
Scrimgeour was livid. He could hardly believe that the Minister for Magic himself would side with such a dangerous wizard. To him, this was no different from joining the Dark Lord's ranks.
If Fudge could have heard that thought, he'd have shouted back indignantly: Of course there's a difference!
Standing behind the Dark Lord only brought terror and chaos. But siding with Charles Gold was comfortable. Charles hardly meddled in politics. All Fudge needed to do was handle a few minor inconveniences for him—small favors, really—and he'd be left in peace.
And besides, even the Malfoy family seemed to have chosen their side, becoming one of Charles's quiet backers. With the Malfoys' influence came… benefits.
For example, this latest incident had already earned Fudge quite a few Galleons.
After those pure-bloods had died, the Malfoys began acquiring their estates and vaults. By right, the wealth should have gone to Charles—but he understood that to make the horse run, you had to feed it first.
So he simply handed Fudge a portion of the Galleons.
It was the kind of money that, by Ministry salary standards, would've taken a Philosopher's Stone and six hundred years of labor to earn.
For a brief moment, Fudge almost felt that the chair beneath him—the position of Minister for Magic—wasn't such a big deal after all. Still, he knew that as long as he held it, he could do far more for Charles.
Such as… resolving this little "problem."
"I must remind you, Scrimgeour," Fudge began smoothly, "this entire accusation is baseless. Charles Gold merely went on holiday for Christmas. He traveled on the official wizarding express—hardly the behavior of a lawbreaker. You won't find a more proper wizard anywhere."
"Then tell me," Scrimgeour shot back, teeth clenched, "if he didn't do it, why were all those pure-bloods gathered in one place? Were they having a sightseeing tour? The station records show no tickets for any of them!"
"And how do you explain the fire?" he continued, nearly grinding his teeth to dust. "That region's climate makes natural wildfires impossible!"
"That's simple!" Fudge slapped his thigh. "Clearly it was a disturbance within the Russian wizarding community. You've heard the reports—political unrest, factions, the works! Some people don't want their world divided like the Muggles'. It must've been a well-planned act of sabotage!"
"Nonsense!" Scrimgeour roared.
"Be that as it may," Fudge replied, regaining his composure, "you cannot arrest an upstanding wizard without evidence. And, might I remind you, he's a Ministry official—your equal in rank, actually." He wagged a pudgy finger self-righteously. "Besides, your Aurors wouldn't stand a chance against him. A misunderstanding could end very badly."
A threat.
That was an outright threat!
Scrimgeour's fists clenched. He wanted nothing more than to punch that smug, porcine face and see what rattled inside that thick skull.
But he couldn't.
The Minister's authority outweighed his own, and the Malfoys were already manipulating the narrative—controlling the press, spinning rumors, and buying silence wherever needed. In their eyes, any problem solvable with money wasn't a problem at all—especially when it wasn't their money being spent.
"Then what about the dead?" Scrimgeour snapped. "Don't forget they had families! Do you think they'll just let this go?"
Pure-blood families were, by definition, families. Those victims weren't alone in the world. Even if only a few were killed, many relatives still lived—some abroad, others imprisoned in Azkaban after Voldemort's fall.
There were widows. Parents. Children.
More family members?
Then kill them too.
For one horrifying second, that thought flashed through Fudge's mind.
He cleared his throat quickly. "Ahem—those people can't prove anything. Charles Gold's itinerary is perfectly documented: Russia first, then a stop in Japan. But the victims? No one knows where they were going or what they planned to do! For all we know, they were plotting some vile scheme themselves. Let's not forget, most of them were former Death Eaters—escaped punishment through loopholes and technicalities!"
That silenced Scrimgeour.
He couldn't argue that. Those missing wizards had been unsavory characters. He'd hated letting them slip through the Wizengamot's grasp, but it wasn't his call to override the Department of Magical Law Enforcement's verdicts.
"Enough," Fudge said, waving him toward the door. "This matter is closed. If the families insist on stirring up trouble, then let them explain why those pure-bloods were in Russia—and why they were using illegal Portkeys!"
And with that, he dismissed Scrimgeour from his office.
Elsewhere, Charles was standing in Dumbledore's office.
The Headmaster had summoned him quietly, his expression calm but probing. Dumbledore's network of watchers and informants far exceeded what Charles imagined—he'd known about the massacre before the Ministry even caught wind of it. But until now, he hadn't confronted Charles directly.
He met the boy's eyes, searching for truth within them.
"Don't try Legilimency on me," Charles said evenly. "You know I never lie to you. I just don't always tell everything."
Dumbledore hesitated. Then, for once, he looked faintly embarrassed and withdrew his gaze.
"Really, Dumbledore, you shouldn't treat a child that way," said Phineas Nigellus Black from his portrait, his tone scolding. Ever since Charles had helped Sirius escape Azkaban, Phineas's attitude toward him had shifted completely—one hundred and eighty degrees. Now he could hardly find a flaw in the boy.
"Besides," the portrait added, "I don't think he's the one responsible—"
"It was me," Charles interrupted flatly.
Phineas froze. "…Oh. Well then. I take it back—you really are a wicked little brat."
Dumbledore nodded slowly.
He had already guessed as much. He merely wanted to hear Charles admit it himself—to see if the boy would be honest. As for the act itself… Dumbledore had seen far darker things. His own hands weren't free of blood, and his sins far outnumbered the boy's.
Still…
"Killing twenty-odd people at once is rather extreme," he said mildly.
"Ah, no," Charles replied.
"No?" Dumbledore raised an eyebrow. "So some survived? Where are they now?"
"I mean…" Charles rubbed the back of his head sheepishly. "It wasn't twenty. It was fifty."
Dumbledore blinked.
"And a few rogue wizards," Charles added casually. "Plus one werewolf—Fenrir something, I think."
(End of Chapter)