Chapter 353: The Ministry's Decree! The Hog's Head Meeting — Time to Sound the Horn of Resistance!
The Ministry of Magic. The Minister's office.
Curtains drawn, blocking out the magical light sources that normally floated above the hall.
Making an office that was already underground feel darker still.
Minister Scrimgeour sat with both hands pressed against his forehead, staring at a letter that had appeared on his desk at some unknown point.
He was drenched in sweat.
[To Minister Rufus Scrimgeour,
Thank you for the entertainment you sent my way. I found it most satisfying.
Enclosed is a small gift. Wishing you continued good health.
Yours faithfully,
Mr. Lamp]
The Lamp Master!!
And that "gift" — a wand, spattered with blood.
Its owner had apparently been quite proud of his identity.
Engraved along the handle, in gilded lettering, was a name:
Corban Yaxley.
The very official he'd sent to investigate.
"This is a declaration of war—this is absolutely a brazen declaration of war!"
Bang! Scrimgeour's fist came down on the desk. He was breathing hard.
"How dare he openly mock the authority of the Ministry—as if I'm nothing to him—Mr. Lamp!!"
In Scrimgeour's mind, two faces surfaced: Ethan's and Dumbledore's.
The new Defence Against the Dark Arts professor was unquestionably Mr. Lamp.
And Ethan and Dumbledore both knew it. They had to.
More than that.
Scrimgeour had a nagging feeling.
From beginning to end, it had all been that dark-haired boy. Ethan Vincent himself, pulling every string.
"A new saviour"… All lies. He hadn't seen Ethan save anyone worth saving.
The werewolf potion?
Those creatures were social destabilisers to begin with. Scrimgeour had long wanted to put them under proper compulsory management.
If Ethan hadn't stuck his nose in —
And Voldemort's return might well be a farce Ethan staged himself from start to finish. A cover for his own dark ambitions.
Creak. Creak.
Scrimgeour clenched his fist so hard his knuckles ached.
The veins in his neck stood out.
The rage of a man who'd been thoroughly played burned hot across his face.
Completely outmanoeuvred.
He'd thought himself untouchable. In reality, every move he'd made had been under the other man's gaze all along.
"Mr Lamp"…what an apt name. We're all moths, throwing ourselves at that blinding light.
And then we fall, and become the fuel that keeps it burning.
Scrimgeour's eyes went cold. He made up his mind.
Drastic measures were necessary.
Cooperating with Ethan had helped him consolidate power quickly, at least while their interests aligned.
But a politician's trust was a house of cards—one gust, and it collapsed.
The moment he realised he couldn't control the other side, he had to move fast.
Smother it before it could grow any further.
Though this particular cradle might well be "the cradle of an ancient god."
Scrimgeour thought, his face flat.
He burned the letter with a flick of his wrist and summoned his subordinates.
"Draft a decree immediately," he said, his voice low and hard. "Using Voldemort's return as grounds — flood Hogwarts with our people. Tight surveillance on everything that happens inside those walls."
"And issue a mandatory order dissolving all student groups. All group activities are banned."
Ethan had some kind of Morning Star Club, didn't he?
Hah. Trying to rebuild the Death Eaters? Build his own private following?
Dream on.
His subordinate blinked, visibly uneasy. "W-won't this come across as too heavy-handed? Headmaster Dumbledore won't agree to —"
"Won't agree?" Scrimgeour gave a cold laugh.
He picked up the bloodstained wand and tossed it to the man. "Show that to Dumbledore. He'll understand."
"Y-yes, sir!"
Scrimgeour had steeled himself for a confrontation with Dumbledore.
To his surprise, however.
The measures went through without a hitch. No resistance at all.
Hogwarts. The Headmaster's study.
"Ho ho ho."
Headmaster Dumbledore stood before a portrait of a girl, his smile warm and unhurried.
As though he'd known they were coming long before they arrived.
Even when he was shown the wand, there was barely a flicker.
Sunlight spread across Dumbledore's face, illuminating every silver strand, every crease and line of it.
Scrimgeour frowned.
It struck him, only now.
This white-robed wizard — the one the wizarding world called its guardian — had grown so old.
"I am old, Rufus. And tired," Dumbledore said.
"I have nothing left that needs doing. You young people — do as you see fit."
Scrimgeour raised an eyebrow, a contemptuous smile on his lips. "Is that the confidence of a man who's thrown his lot in with a dark lord?"
"Ho ho ho~"
Dumbledore laughed — almost brightly. Almost warmly.
Without answering.
He simply turned his head and gazed deeply at the portrait of the girl.
Behind his half-moon spectacles, his eyes were alight.
Scrimgeour pressed his lips together, feeling vaguely foolish.
Like he'd thrown his best punch and the other man simply hadn't cared to block it.
A faint, wordless irritation settled in.
"Since you're being so cooperative, the official decree will be delivered shortly. I'll take my leave."
Scrimgeour touched the brim of his hat in a perfunctory farewell.
Before he left.
His eyes drifted to the portrait. He found himself saying, stiffly: "That's a fine painting. Remarkably lifelike — almost like a real person."
"Yes. Almost like a real person…"
Dumbledore replied.
He lifted a withered hand. Slowly, gently, traced his fingers over the painted surface.
And murmured: "She is my most precious treasure."
Scrimgeour raised an eyebrow. Turned and walked out.
The old man really has lost it, he thought.
Pouring that kind of feeling into a painting.
Hah. That's how a man ends up in league with darkness.
Bang. Bang. Bang.
The sound of a hammer driving nails echoed down the corridor.
Students craned their necks.
High up on a ladder, caretaker Filch swung his hammer repeatedly, nailing the Ministry's freshly issued decrees to the wall.
"I've always wondered," Michael said with a frown, "why they make a Squib do something magic could handle in seconds."
"Isn't that a bit cruel?"
Stephen pushed his glasses up. "Say that to Filch's face if you're brave enough."
Everyone disliked Filch. Everyone was also afraid of Filch.
The moment you stepped even a toe out of line, a sharp, hook-nosed face would appear from the shadows before you had time to blink.
It got you every time.
Harry: "From this day forward, in the interests of student safety, all group activities are hereby dissolved. Gatherings of five or more students are prohibited… What kind of rule is this?"
What did group activities have to do with student safety?
The Ministry was treating them like constituents to be sweet-talked with empty slogans.
Students up and down the corridor grumbled freely and loudly, making no effort to lower their voices as they condemned the Ministry's heavy-handedness.
Right then.
"What are you all looking at, children?"
A voice — smooth and unhurried as a good red wine.
The students instinctively parted.
The Defence Against the Dark Arts professor — the only one on staff who wore a suit and cloak — came strolling forward like a king arriving in his own court.
He studied the decree on the wall with a contemplative tilt of his chin, and said: "Hmm… I see."
Then shook his head and turned to the ladder.
"This simply won't do, Mr Filch. You've made a rather serious error."
"What?"
Filch shot the spiral-faced professor a look of pure venom.
He couldn't stand this new professor—not one bit.
No respect for the castle's rules. No respect for anything.
The way he'd helped the Weasley twins with their pranks alone was a hanging offence.
"Hah!" Filch said. "Your classes have been hit quite hard by these, haven't they? The Ministry's issued rather a lot of provisions specifically targeting you."
"If you ask me, the Ministry's done a wonderful thing—"
"I'm afraid you've misunderstood me, Mr Filch."
Professor Unknown—Ethan—shook his head.
He looked up with a smile. "What I meant is, your display has no aesthetic sensibility whatsoever."
"Ah?" Filch said.
The words had barely left his mouth.
The wall rippled.
Countless hideous tentacles crawled out from it like something waking up, surging forward in a wave and throwing themselves at the decrees!
"AAAHH!!"
Filch let out a shriek and lurched backward — lost his balance — and tumbled clean off the ladder!
Whoosh.
A gentle current of magic caught him.
And set him softly on the ground.
"Oh dear, how careless of you."
Filch opened his eyes.
And found himself staring directly into a spiral face, inches from his own.
Close enough to see every groove in that rubber-like skin.
Like two black holes, staring into him.
"Don't you come near me!"
He shoved the professor away in a fury, scrambled upright, and bellowed, "The Ministry will have you locked up sooner or later! You just wait and see!!"
"I'm rather looking forward to it~" Ethan said.
"…"
ARRGH, he is INFURIATING!!
After sending the puffed-up caretaker on his way.
Ethan turned his attention back to the row of decrees on the wall.
He murmured, "At the end of the day, they're nothing but black ink on white paper."
"But attach power to them, and suddenly they can influence and strip away the rights of others."
"The Ministry, true to form. As heavy-handed as ever."
"Still no appreciation for art."
Ethan knew exactly why the Ministry had moved this aggressively.
It was because of the letter he'd sent.
A pity. Minister Scrimgeour had acted—but made entirely the wrong choice.
Honestly. People really did need a little discernment.
Someone as upright and virtuous as himself—how could anyone mistake him for a dark lord?
Those who couldn't tell the difference should be made to look at one hundred great works of art as penance.
Just then.
Ethan heard Hermione nearby, voice tight with worry: "The Ministry's dissolving all clubs? What happens to the Morning Star Club?"
"Merlin! Does this mean Hogwarts' secret talent development programme comes to an end here?!"
Hermione's cheeks were flushed, anxious as though the world was ending tomorrow.
Admittedly, the Morning Star Club was a problem.
Though not a large one.
Ethan glanced sideways at the Aurors stationed nearby and thought:
The Ministry wants to use brute force to suppress him.
Let them watch, then. Let them see what a proper comeback looks like.
He'd never followed the rules anyway.
Ethan smiled faintly to himself and strolled away.
That evening.
Every member of the Morning Star Club, as night fell, heard a voice speak quietly in their ear:
[This weekend, go to Hogsmeade. Meet at the Hog's Head at two o'clock in the afternoon.]
[It's time to sound the horn of resistance.]
Weekend. Hogsmeade.
Half past one. The Hog's Head.
Looking up at the decrepit, battered building in front of them, Ron said curiously, "I've never actually been to the Hog's Head. I've heard it's filthy and chaotic in there, and the owner's got a terrible temper!"
"Mm."
Harry answered absently.
Brow furrowed, lost in thought.
"Never mind that—let's just get inside."
Hermione glanced around warily, then pushed them forward.
"There are Aurors who've already clocked us!"
Across the way, the Aurors watched the three of them hurry into the pub and exchanged a look.
Then followed.
Surveilling students wasn't pleasant work, but the Minister had given direct orders.
Every move the priority students made was to be reported.
And secret gatherings were absolutely not permitted.
Students ought to sit down quietly and go to school.
Creak.
The rusty door hinge turned.
What met their eyes was a scene utterly unlike anything they'd expected.
The universe. The stars.
Constellations turning slowly all around them, dreamlike colours forming drifting ribbons of light.
Weaving and swirling.
As if they'd stepped in a single stride from reality into a waking dream.
A world of fungi and stars.
The Aurors stopped dead.
No—more precisely.
They began to drift along with the cosmos, turning with it.
A flood of dense, bewildering information poured into their minds.
Scrambling their thoughts. Dissolving their reason as easily as sugar in warm water.
Until their eyes went blank.
The Aurors gradually came to understand everything.
Creak.
The rusty door hinge turned.
Harry, Ron, and Hermione tumbled in through the door.
What met their eyes was dim and run-down.
A desiccated shrunken head hung over the bar, and upon noticing them, it hollered: "More little brats!"
The tabletops looked as though they hadn't been wiped in ten years, gleaming with a layer of accumulated grease.
Hermione recoiled with visible distaste.
But right in the centre of the pub — impossible to miss — sat the president of their Morning Star Club, Ethan Vincent.
Both hands folded under his chin, waiting for them with a quiet smile.
A single shaft of light filtered through the heavy window frame and fell, just so, across the hood he'd pulled up.
Half his face in light, half in shadow.
The one brilliant diamond-blue eye that caught the light didn't blink as it watched them.
That sharp, piercing gaze — as though it could peel back skin and reach straight into the soul.
His lips curved. "I knew someone would show up half an hour early."
Harry and Ron were still blinking.
Hermione had already let out a cry and darted forward.
She spread her arms wide — then, catching sight of Luna sitting quietly in the shadows beside Ethan, reined in her enthusiasm just slightly.
"Ethan! I feel like I haven't seen you in ages!"
Hermione clasped her hands together, eyes fixed on him with bright, unwavering attention.
Ron turned away with a face like he'd eaten something bad and stuck out his tongue.
Look at her. She's practically fawning.
When has she ever been this gentle with us?
Hermione was speaking from the heart.
There was even a trace of grievance in it.
Ethan had been oddly absent this term—barely visible. Even Morning Star Club activities had thinned out considerably.
Though, to be fair.
Under the new Defence Against the Dark Arts professor's relentless assault.
Everyone was burning through their days at a terrifying pace and had no energy left to notice much else.
"I've been with you all along," Ethan said with an air of great mystery.
Because the Defence Against the Dark Arts professor is me, Ethan!
Hermione paused.
She assumed Ethan was referring to his golden spirit.
The kind of "gold" that poisoned you if you swallowed it.
Her expression turned faintly peculiar.
…Could we have just a little breathing room, please?
Otherwise, we really will all go mad.
Before long.
The invited Morning Star Club members trickled in one by one, until everyone was present.
Not a single person was late.
Everyone was clearly terrified of Ethan.
Ethan looked satisfied. "Good. Then let's begin today's meeting."
With that.
He snapped his fingers—to the visible alarm of everyone present—and said, "Sir, the drinks."
Aberforth—broad, powerfully built, the landlord of this establishment:
'Sir' your grandmother's leg!!
Do you think this is a five-star hotel?!
Aberforth swept a glare around the table at the students shrinking into their seats and blew a loud breath through his nose.
Then turned away, grumbling, to pour the drinks.
"Wow—"
Only Ethan could tame someone that terrifying.
...For the sake of that painting.
Aberforth Dumbledore, younger brother of Albus, endured.
Mugs of butterbeer, brimming with golden foam, floated through the air at Ethan's direction.
And landed in the students' hands one by one.
Under their tense, expectant gazes, Ethan began to speak.
"Do you know—the fiercest and most brilliant light is always born from the deepest, most absolute darkness?"
"The harder the Ministry works to keep us in check. The harder they push to suppress us."
"The more furiously we will burn."
"That's right!"
Justin shot to his feet in excitement, butterbeer mug raised high.
Then, a beat later, he went red in the face and sat back down stiffly.
Nearby, Aberforth sipped his butterbeer and watched the scene with a cool eye.
With just a handful of words, he's already got them.
Like oil on a fire. That boy's words carry something in them—something genuinely felt, genuinely fierce.
"Hm. Not to be underestimated."
Aberforth clicked his tongue and knocked back another long gulp.
"The time has come," Ethan said.
"After all these years of effort—the moment has arrived for our flower of light to bloom before the world."
"You may know that deep within Gringotts, a wretched dragon stands guard over wealth stolen by criminals."
"Even though those criminals have been tried and sent to Azkaban."
"The gold has never been redistributed—no reparations, no compensation for the heroes of the war."
"And the Ministry looks the other way. Has always looked the other way. Why is that?"
Ethan brought his mug down on the table with a thud.
Every pair of eyes locked on him gave a collective jolt.
"Because the Ministry has been helping themselves to that ill-gotten wealth."
Ethan said, each word deliberate, his gaze burning.
"The first shot we fire in this wizarding world — will be to expose the rot running through Gringotts at its very roots."
"To rip away the black cloth the Ministry has been desperately holding in place."
"And to let the world know, officially, the name of the Morning Star."
— And, incidentally.
To collect the Hufflepuff Cup.