Ch: 121-130
Chapter 121: Intensifying the Interrogation
In the office of Minister for Magic Cornelius Fudge, the atmosphere was so heavy it could be wrung out like water.
With Professor Quirrell's named report, this issue was no longer a small trouble that could be brushed aside with evasive talk and compromise.
This latest whistleblowing letter was written with such tearful detail, revealing how Snape had cornered the poor Professor Quirrell in a hallway late one night, using evil Dark Arts to threaten him into stealing the Philosopher's Stone.
Thus, this already cramped office was now packed with every high-ranking official and senior Auror in the Ministry of Magic who could still draw breath.
On Fudge's expensive mahogany desk, a mountain of documents was piled high, including the Felix Felicis ledger seized from Malfoy Manor and those two whistleblowing letters that had been pored over many times.
A few wizard accountants wearing monocles were gloomily sorting through the ledgers, while others held magnifying glasses around the two letters, as if trying to analyze more secrets from between the lines.
For so many days, they had investigated the ingredients of "Felix Felicis," the advertisements placed in all newspapers including The Daily Prophet, and even the endorsement fees paid to Gilderoy Lockhart; almost every trace of funds in the revenue accounts had been thoroughly scrutinized.
The result? They found absolutely nothing.
Not a single trace related to You-Know-Who was found; the accounts were as clean as if they had just been licked by a House-elf.
Finally, Fudge stole a glance at Dumbledore, who had barely spoken the entire time, and swallowed back the words "summon Snape" that were on the tip of his tongue.
He cleared his throat, adopted a thoughtful expression, and spoke cautiously: "I think perhaps we should first invite Mr. Quirinus Quirrell to the Ministry to ask about what he knows. At the same time, we can provide him with proper protection!"
This sentence instantly enlightened everyone.
Exactly!
What was the point of everyone slaving over a pile of old parchment for so long? Why not just go straight to the whistleblower who wrote the letters?
After all, the scene of coercion and bribery described in the second named letter was so specific, it was as if someone had recorded it with a scrying crystal ball nearby. No one could have made that up without being there.
Fudge had actually wanted to do this for a long time, but he couldn't get Dumbledore, that great figure, to budge. But he couldn't get Dumbledore to budge.
When the old man arrived here in the early hours, he immediately vouched for Snape, saying Severuswould never do such a thing, which blocked all of Fudge's plans.
Left with no choice, Fudge could only intensify the interrogation of Lucius Malfoy while speeding up the auditing of the relevant ledgers.
With the named whistleblowing letter as his backbone, Fudge acted tough for once, letting the brutes in the Auror Office have their way.
Thus, in the interrogation room downstairs, Lucius Malfoy's voice never ceased.
But after interrogating him all night, they gained nothing useful except a bunch of "I don't know," "I'm innocent," and nonsense about dragon-hide glove maintenance tips.
Furious, Fudge sent people to prepare Veritaserum and ordered all the "Felix Felicis" ledgers to be moved to his office so he could personally oversee the investigation.
This posture made it clear he intended to turn this case into the biggest one since he took office.
In his view, what the actual truth was didn't matter at all.
Whether Lucius was the problem, or Snape and Quirrell were, as long as something could be found, it would greatly bolster his prestige as Minister Fudge.
Lucius has a problem? Good, then he could use this plump peacock of the Malfoy Family as a scapegoat to make an example and establish his authority!
Snape or Quirrell has a problem? Even better! He could take the opportunity to give Hogwarts a good knock and let that old man Dumbledore know who the supreme leader of the Magical World really is!
"Cornelius, I have said that Severus is not a problem," Dumbledore finally spoke, calmly adjusting his half-moon spectacles. "Furthermore, I do not believe these two letters were written by Quirinus."
He changed the subject, his voice slow and heavy. "I recognize his handwriting, and this is not his script at all. There must be something here that we have overlooked..."
Dumbledore knew perfectly well; he had personally assigned Snape to watch the Philosopher's Stonethis school year, so how could Snape turn around and steal it?
If he really wanted to resurrect Lord Voldemort, he had plenty of opportunities and wouldn't need to force Quirrell to help.
Instead, Dumbledore hoped to use the Ministry of Magic's power to follow this sudden clue and take the chance to search for actual traces of Lord Voldemort.
Instead, he hoped to use the Ministry of Magic's power to follow this clue and take the chance to search for traces of Lord Voldemort.
To this, Fudge only wanted to roll his eyes.
Old man, if you're being protective, just say so; don't make up excuses about handwriting.
He felt Dumbledore was simply covering up his own poor judgment in personnel.
Think about it: a Professor from Hogwarts defecting to the enemy and becoming a lackey of the Dark Lord—what a massive scandal that would be!
In the British Wizarding World, Hogwarts' influence was second only to the Ministry of Magic.
To some extent, this Principal was an uncrowned Deputy Minister.
If this Principal also happened to be the most powerful Wizard of the age, he could stand above the order of the Ministry of Magic.
Such a scandal would undoubtedly shake Dumbledore's prestige, forcing him and his Hogwarts to obediently submit to the leadership of the Ministry of Magic.
"Albus, this is a whistleblowing letter, not a love letter! Wouldn't a terrified person disguise their handwriting?"
Fudge's patience was finally exhausted. "Since you object, tell me, what should we do now? If the contents of the letter are true, then Mr. Quirrell is in great danger and could face a life-threatening situation at any moment!"
At this point, Lucius Malfoy howled "I really didn't!" from downstairs, causing Fudge's eyelid to twitch.
After Lucius's voice subsided, he slammed his hand on the desk decisively: "Mr. Quirrell must have suffered extremely serious threats to report to the Ministry of Magic twice... The situation is now critical!"
Just then, the fireplace in the office went "whoosh" as green flames surged upward.
Professor McGonagall's perpetually stern face appeared in the flames. Seeing Dumbledore, she shouted urgently without any pleasantries: "Albus, Quirrell has been attacked..."
With a "thump," everyone in the office sprang from their chairs in unison, their faces filled with unmaskable shock.
Minister Fudge was actually right!
Fudge's expression was a sight to behold. First came astonishment, then a triumphant gleam of "just as I expected" burst from his eyes. He straightened his already portly back, tilted his chin up slightly, and cast a victorious glance at Dumbledore.
As for Dumbledore, the tiny twinkle of mischief in his deep blue eyes extinguished instantly, replaced by a pool of bottomless coldness.
Chapter 122: Quirrell, Get Out Here
At the Castle gates, the caretaker Filch was yawning, leaning lazily against a doorpost, cradling his precious cat, Madam Norris.
Seeing this group of aggressive noblewomen, Filch was momentarily stunned, then forced a smile onto his face.
"Oh, ladies, good morning. Are you here to tour the Castle, or to visit your children?" he said, habitually extending his hand as if expecting a few Galleons in tips.
Augusta didn't reply at all. She walked straight up to him, her gaze sharp as needles: "We're looking for Quirinus Quirrell! Tell him to get out here and face us!"
Filch's smile froze on his face.
Since Professor Quirrell had become famous in the newspapers, all sorts of people had come looking for him—some admirers, and naturally, some troublemakers.
Filch had plenty of experience dealing with such matters.
"Er... Professor Quirrell... he's in the middle of a class. Without an appointment, you can't..."
Filch didn't finish his sentence. A woman behind Augusta pulled out a wand and pointed the tip at him.
Augusta moved even faster. She grabbed Filch by the collar and lifted him off the ground with one hand.
"Shut up! Take us there! Or I'll hang you and this smelly cat of yours from the highest spire of the Castle!"
Filch's legs kicked wildly in the air. Madam Norris, startled, jumped from his arms with a screech and bolted into the bushes.
Filch looked into Augusta's eyes; they were filled with pure madness and fury.
He had no doubt that this woman would do exactly as she said.
"On... on the third floor... the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom on the left..." Filch stammered out the location.
"Very well!"
Augusta let go. Filch collapsed onto the ground like a sack of unwanted potatoes.
With a wave of her hand, she led her sisters like an unstoppable torrent, surging grandly into Hogwarts Castle.
The corridors of Hogwarts had never been so "lively."
Dozens of high heels clicked against the marble floor, a dense "clack-clack" sound like a loose-knit yet aggressive army on the march.
The students they encountered along the way all watched this procession of noblewomen in stunned silence, retreating to the walls to make way for them.
The knights and ladies in the portraits also peeked out, curiously discussing this once-in-a-century spectacle.
Peeves was excitedly somersaulting in the air; he could smell big trouble brewing.
He took the initiative to fly at the front of the group, acting as a guide, while singing a self-composed ditty in a piercing voice.
"Crazy hags, out for blood, poor old Quirrell's name is mud! Teeth all gone, hair pulled out, let's see him try to scream and shout! Hee hee hee!"
Professor McGonagall received the news immediately. When she hurried out of her office, she ran straight into this army at the top of the marble staircase.
"Augusta Longbottom! What are you doing?!"
Professor McGonagall roared. She spread her arms, blocking the stairs, her wand gripped tightly in her hand, the tip pointed at Augusta, who was in the lead.
"This is a school! Not a place for you to run wild!"
Augusta stopped and gave a cold laugh. She crossed her arms, looking Professor McGonagall up and down.
"Minerva, I suggest you step aside. We aren't here for you today. We're looking for Quirinus Quirrell! He must pay the price for what he's done!"
"Professor Quirrell is teaching a class! I don't care what personal grievances you have, leave Hogwartsimmediately! Otherwise, don't blame me for being impolite!" Professor McGonagall's face was tight with anger, and a powerful aura radiated from her.
But the members of the "Happiness Club" today had long since had their reason swept away by withdrawal irritability and overwhelming rage. There were dozens of them, and they didn't care at all about the warning of a single Professor McGonagall.
"Impolite? Minerva, just how impolite do you plan to be?" Madam Pandora Sol stepped forward from the group and spoke mockingly. "Don't forget, many of us here are School Governors of Hogwarts. Are you sure you want to offend all of us?"
"Exactly! Dumbledore isn't here; do you think you can protect him?"
"Make him come out! Let him admit in front of everyone that he slandered Felix Felicis and Mr. Lucius!"
The women began to clamor all at once, their voices rising wave after wave, creating a massive echo in the stairwell.
Professor McGonagall was shaking with rage.
She could deal with ten Dark Wizards without hesitation, but facing this group of unreasonable noblewomen who also held the status of School Governors, she momentarily didn't know what to do.
To take action would be to attack the Governors, the consequences of which were unthinkable.
If she didn't act, they would storm into the classroom and attack a Professor.
Augusta glanced at the corridor leading to the other side and then gave a look to the people behind her.
"Sisters, let's take another way!"
They completely ignored the furious Professor McGonagall, like a pack of piranhas smelling blood, bypassing her and surging in the direction Filch had indicated.
Professor McGonagall tried to block them with her body, but she was roughly pushed aside by several strong noblewomen.
She stumbled, nearly falling down the stairs.
"Quick! Go notify Professor Flitwick and Professor Sprout!" Professor McGonagall shouted to a terrified Ravenclaw prefect on the stairs.
Then, clutching the hem of her robes and disregarding her decorum, she hurried back to her office; she needed to contact Dumbledore immediately.
At this moment, inside the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom, the lesson was in progress.
Signas sat in his seat, looking at Quirrell on the podium, feeling that things were somewhat surreal.
Professor Quirrell stood in the center of the classroom, demonstrating advanced techniques for the "Protego" spell to the students.
He waved his wand, and a translucent, pale purple dome instantly appeared around the podium, emitting a soft glow.
"...Remember, the strength of the Shield Charm against the Dark Arts depends entirely on your willpower to resist malice. You must have unyielding perseverance and absolute confidence in countering evil thoughts! This belief will become the 'anchor' of the spell, making it indestructible..."
"BANG—!"
A loud crash interrupted Quirrell's words.
The heavy wooden door of the classroom was slammed open from the outside by a massive force.
The door panel slammed hard against the adjacent stone wall, wood splinters flying everywhere with a terrifying noise.
The entire class was startled, turning their heads in unison to look.
Signas also looked over.
He saw dozens of noblewomen, their jewelry clinking and perfume wafting, surrounding a woman in fiery red robes, aggressively blocking the doorway.
Their faces were meticulously made up, but their eyes looked as if they wanted to devour someone.
The atmosphere in the classroom instantly froze.
Professor Quirrell's lecture came to an abrupt halt.
The confidence and composure on his face crumbled instantly upon seeing Augusta's distorted expression.
The wand in his hand trembled, and the pale purple dome covering the podium vanished with a "pop," like a poked soap bubble.
Chapter 123: Firmly Grabbing a Corner of the Already Loose Purple turban
"Qui... Quirinus Quirrell!"
Augusta's voice was sharp and piercing.
With a finger painted in bright red polish, she pointed directly at the man on the podium who had instantly reverted to a cowering quail, and shouted with all her might:
"You despicable, shameless liar..."
"I... I..." Quirrell's face instantly turned deathly pale, devoid of any color. The gold-rimmed glasses on the bridge of his nose slipped down, dangling precariously from the tip.
He subconsciously took two steps back. That familiar, bone-deep sense of dread enveloped him once more, and with it, his stutter returned.
"W-what... what do you... you all... want to do?"
The students were all stunned. Signas saw that Harry, Ron, and Hermione in the front row had expressions of total confusion and bewilderment on their faces.
Wh... what was going on?
Weren't these people the victims of the "Felix Felicis" scam?
Shouldn't they be thanking Professor Quirrell for revealing the truth to them?
Why did they look like they hated Professor Quirrell even more than Snape did?
"What do we want to do?"
Augusta sneered. Leading her "circle of sisters," she approached the podium step by step, the sound of her high heels exceptionally clear in the silent classroom.
"We're here to expose your true face, you hypocrite!"
"That's right! It's him! Talking nonsense in the newspapers, slandering Felix Felicis, and slandering Mr. Lucius!"
"Because of you, we can't even buy 'Felix Felicis' now! Look at my face, I've got dark circles under my eyes! My skin is dry too!"
"Today, we're going to tear apart that lying mouth of yours..."
The women's emotions spiraled completely out of control. Various expensive designer handbags swung through the air as if they intended to beat Quirrell to death with them.
Seeing dozens of women swarming forward, Quirrell kept backing away until his back hit the classroom wall hard.
His meticulously groomed outfit now looked utterly ridiculous. His gold-rimmed glasses were crooked, making him look like a terrified little quail.
"D-don't come any closer!"
Seeing no way to escape, Quirrell finally remembered he was a Wizard. He let out an unseemly shriek and suddenly waved his wand: "Protego!"
A translucent, pale purple halo instantly expanded in front of him, separating him from the crowd of crazed women.
The color of the halo indicated it was his Defense Against the Dark Arts enhanced version of the Shield Charm; it looked quite standard.
The young Wizards in the classroom, especially Harry Potter, breathed a collective sigh of relief.
Harry even straightened his back, an expression of "the Professor is mighty" worship appearing on his face, as if he could already see these vicious women rendered helpless before powerful magic.
However, Madam Augusta Longbottom made a move that no one in the room expected.
She didn't pull out her wand, nor did she even bother to recite an incantation. She simply gave a cold snort and swung the limited-edition Dragon-hide handbag slung over her wrist in a wide arc, hurling it with the force of someone hitting a Quidditch Bludger!
The handbag, worth at least a thousand Galleons, traced a graceful arc filled with the scent of money through the air, before hitting the pale purple halo with a solid "thud."
There was a sharp "crack," like glass shattering.
Under the dumbfounded gaze of every student in the classroom, the magical barrier created by the "Protego" spell shattered like a cheap lightbulb.
Countless purple spots of light exploded in the air, like scattered glass shards, before silently annihilating.
"..."
The entire dungeon classroom fell into a deathly silence.
The look of worship on Harry Potter's face froze completely. His mouth hung open, his emerald-green eyes filled with question marks.
The smiles on the faces of the other Gryffindors also froze.
Signas almost lost his composure and burst out laughing on the spot.
Physical shield-breaking? Or pay-to-win shield-breaking?
He seriously doubted whether Madam Augusta's dragon-hide bag was enchanted with some "Indestructible" rune forged by Ancient Dwarves.
Otherwise, how could a basic Shield Charm be smashed by a bag?
The only explanation was that Quirrell's own psychological defenses had completely collapsed; his spell was nothing but an empty shell, unable to withstand even the impact of a bag.
The master image he had just built up in class shattered along with his fragile barrier, leaving nothing behind.
"Sisters, get him!"
Augusta wouldn't give anyone time to react.
Once the barrier broke, the women's last reservations vanished. Like a pack of Hippogriffs released from their cages, they shrieked and roared as they pounced on the man cowering in the corner.
The scene that followed could no longer be described as a "conflict"; it was a pure, one-sided beatdown.
They didn't even use their wands, only fists and fingernails... "Give me back my youth!" one lady shouted, grabbing Quirrell by the collar and shaking him violently.
"Tear off his turban! I want to see what shameful thing he's hiding on his head!" Madam Pandora Solscreamed, reaching out with her hands—nails painted bright red—to yank at the iconic Purple turban on Quirrell's head.
"Aaaaah!"
Quirrell let out a scream like a slaughtered pig.
He desperately protected the back of his head, pinned against the wall by the women, being pulled and shoved like a rag doll.
His well-tailored Velvet robes were ripped, his gold-rimmed glasses had long since flown off to who-knows-where, and his meticulously fastened turban was pulled askew.
"Stop! All of you, stop!"
Harry Potter finally snapped out of his shock.
Hermione also screamed, "Don't fight anymore..."
However, these faint voices of justice were instantly drowned out by the wave of the noblewomen's fury.
"It's your fault Fudge confiscated the Felix Felicis! My husband's business has been affected..."
"My dark circles! Pay me back for my dark circles!"
"Tear his mouth apart! See if he dares to talk nonsense in the newspapers again!"
One rather plump lady even took off one of her diamond-encrusted pointed high heels and swung it at Quirrell.
"Bang!"
The heel struck Quirrell's arm, which was protecting the back of his head, with a solid thud, making him let out an even more shrill scream.
In the midst of this chaos, Madam Pandora Sol finally found her chance.
She circled to Quirrell's side and, using both hands, firmly grabbed a corner of the already loose Purple turban.
"I've got it! Sisters, help me!"
Quirrell's pupils suddenly constricted. He let out a desperate whimper and twisted his body frantically, trying to break free from the grip.
"No! Don't—!"
Chapter 124: Control Your Wife! Now! Immediately! Right Now!
"It wasn't me who reported it..."
Just as Pandora's fingers, coated in crimson nail polish, were about to touch the edge of the turban, a shrill, cracked scream tore through the chaos of the classroom.
"I didn't! I didn't report Felix Felicis! Someone used my name! They framed me!"
Quirrell's voice was distorted by extreme terror; he no longer cared about his stutter, and every word seemed squeezed out of his chest with all his might.
Time seemed to have been placed under a Body-Bind Curse at this moment.
Pandora Sol's hand froze in mid-air, the sneer on her face congealing. Lady Augusta Longbottom's high-raised dragon-hide handbag also stopped, and for the first time, a look of bewilderment appeared on her face.
All the noble ladies stopped their movements, looking at each other like a group of puppets whose pause buttons had been pressed.
The brains of the young Wizards in the classroom collectively crashed even harder.
Framed?
What was this? The plot twist of the century?
The lone hero in their hearts, who was unafraid of power and dared to draw his sword against the dark and evil forces, had a first reaction of shouting "It wasn't me, I didn't do it, someone else did it" instead of heroically resisting when being ganged up on by those evil forces?
Signas leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, with an "as expected" expression on his face.
At the other end of the classroom, the Harry Potter trio instantly felt guilty.
They naturally knew that Professor Quirrell was telling the "truth," because they were the ones who wrote that letter!
But... but... how could they admit that?
Moreover, in their eyes, Professor Quirrell was on the front lines of the fight against Dark Wizards.
This glory originally belonged to him.
Now, his words were clearly because he had been beaten to a mental breakdown by this group of vicious women and had started talking nonsense!
For a hero to be forced into denying his own achievements—how tragic!
"Did you hear that?!" Harry's face turned red as he roared at the group of noble ladies. "You thugs, look what you've done to the Professor! He's started talking nonsense!"
After shouting, he turned to Quirrell, who was cowering in the corner, and encouraged him with an incredibly firm gaze: "Professor, don't be afraid! You don't have to fear them! No one can erase your bravery and achievements. We all support you. Please, you must hold on! Justice never yields..."
Harry's voice echoed in the silent classroom, filled with the unique, headlong passion and innocence of youth.
Quirrell was completely stunned. He stared blankly at Harry, his eyes wide with fear and filled with disbelief.
What nonsense is this kid... talking about?
"That's right!" Ron also stood up. Although his legs were still a bit weak, his friend's courage had infected him. "Professor, don't be afraid of them! No one can take away your glory. You are a true hero!"
Hermione didn't speak, but she pursed her lips tightly and pointed her wand directly at the group of noble ladies, even though her hand was trembling slightly.
Hiding in the back corner of the classroom, Signas watched this scene of magical realism and almost couldn't help laughing out loud.
He quickly lowered his head, covered his mouth with his hand, and his shoulders shook uncontrollably and violently.
Heavens, Savior, you really are a devil.
Quirrell wanted to distance himself to save his life, but here you go, blocking his path of retreat and sealing it with cement.
Sure enough, with Harry stirring things up like this, Augusta and the other noble ladies also came to their senses.
Right!
This bastard must be scared and is trying to get away with it this way!
Does he think we're fools?
Augusta recovered from her initial shock. She gave a disdainful snort and slung her handbag back over her wrist. "I don't think he's been beaten hard enough! Sisters, don't listen to this liar's nonsense! He's just acting!"
"Exactly! Still trying to trick us! Today we must let him know the consequences of slandering Felix Felicis!" Pandora also screamed, reaching out her claws again toward Quirrell's turban. "Strip him bare first..."
"No! I'm telling the truth! Please, believe me!" Quirrell's body struggled violently. He was like a fish thrown onto the shore, twisting desperately to avoid the hands reaching for his head.
His voice carried a sob, full of despair, as he wailed continuously, "I really didn't write that letter! I really didn't... You can check the handwriting, or you can ask Dumbledore..."
The more he defended himself, the angrier the women became. In their eyes, this was undoubtedly using Dumbledore's name to pressure them.
"You still dare to mention Dumbledore!"
"I see you won't shed a tear until you see the coffin!"
At this critical moment, a steady, resonant voice carrying unquestionable authority boomed at the classroom door.
"Everyone, stop!"
The voice seemed to carry a physical impact, causing the air in the entire classroom to vibrate.
Everyone, including the scuffling Quirrell and the noble ladies, subconsciously looked toward the sound.
Albus Dumbledore was standing at the classroom door. He was still wearing those deep blue robes embroidered with stars and moons, his long silvery-white beard neatly tucked into his belt.
The expression on his face was unusually serious. His blue eyes, which usually twinkled with gentleness and mischief, were now like the icy seas of the North Pole—cold and sharp—as they swept over everyone in the classroom.
Behind him was the grim-faced Minister for Magic, Cornelius Fudge, along with a group of Ministry officials and Aurors with varying expressions. Finally, there were the furious Professor McGonagall, Professor Flitwick, and others.
The top brass of Hogwarts and the core of power from the Ministry of Magic appeared just like that at the door of a small Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom.
The atmosphere of the scene instantly changed from a chaotic market to a quiet one.
The arrogance of the noble ladies was extinguished at a visible rate.
They subconsciously let go of Quirrell, hurriedly tidying their messy robes and hair, trying to restore the dignity belonging to the upper class, though their smeared makeup and disheveled hair made them look ridiculous and pathetic.
Quirrell, on the other hand, was like a heap of mud, sliding down the wall to sit on the floor.
He curled into a ball, his hands deathly gripping his turban, his body still shaking violently and uncontrollably, with unintelligible whimpers coming from his mouth.
Dumbledore's gaze swept around the classroom, finally landing on the group of noble ladies. His voice was calm, but every word was like a small hammer striking ice, carrying a bone-chilling coldness.
"Can someone explain to me exactly what is going on here?"
No one dared to answer. Lady Augusta Longbottom opened her mouth, but under Dumbledore's all-seeing gaze, she ultimately swallowed her words.
Cornelius Fudge's face had turned from grim to a deep purple. He felt his face burning with pain, as if it had been slapped dozens of times in turn.
In Hogwarts, a group of noble ladies had ganged up on the whistleblower of a major case involving the Dark Arts! And the leader was actually the wife of one of his own Ministry subordinates!
If this got out, where would he, the Minister for Magic, hide his face?
He had just solemnly promised in his office to protect this Mr. Quirrell, who "could face life-threatening danger at any moment," and in the blink of an eye, the man had been beaten!
People who didn't know better would think he, the Minister, had taken money from the Malfoy Familyand deliberately instructed the family members of his subordinates to retaliate against this righteous Wizard who dared to expose the truth!
If this mud were thrown at him, he wouldn't be able to wash it off even if he jumped into the Black Lake!
His gaze searched through the crowd and quickly found Dolores Umbridge, who was trying to shrink himself into a ball and hide in the corner.
That poor wretch was desperately trying to reduce his presence, his head almost buried in the fat on his chest, only wishing he could perform a "disappearing act" on the spot.
"Longbottom!"
Fudge's voice was squeezed out from between his teeth, raspy and sharp.
He pointed at the fat man who was still shivering, the anger and embarrassment he had accumulated finally finding an outlet: "Control your wife! Now! Immediately! Right now!"
Chapter 125: Wasn't It You Who Reported It?
Dolores Umbridge shuddered violently, his flab quivering as if struck by lightning, and he nearly burst into tears on the spot.
He felt like an unlucky gnome caught between two hungry dragons—on one side was his furious superior, and on the other was his even more furious wife.
Under the gaze of dozens of eyes, he moved his leaden legs slowly and reluctantly, inching toward Augusta like a prisoner about to walk onto the execution grounds.
He leaned in and pleaded in a voice like a mosquito's buzz, "De... dear, the Minister... he wants us to... calm down first..."
"Get lost! You useless waste!"
Augusta shoved him aside; Dorid's two-hundred-plus pounds were like a scarecrow before her. He stumbled back several steps and landed on his backside with a dull thud.
But Augusta's voice had lost its previous confidence; now, it was only a long-cultivated arrogance that kept her from bowing her head in front of so many people.
So she glared at her husband with feigned strength, not daring to look into Dumbledore's cold eyes.
Fudge ignored the clownish couple and turned to Professor Quirrell, who was curled up on the floor, a gentle smile—the most soothing one he could muster—squeezed onto his face: "Mr. Quirrell, you've been startled. On behalf of the Ministry of Magic, I would like to express my heartfelt gratitude for your immense contribution..."
Before he could finish, Quirrell sprang halfway up from the floor like a cat whose tail had been stepped on.
Several cuts from someone's fingernails marked his face; the bloody streaks, paired with his terrified expression, made him look exceptionally pathetic.
Upon hearing "gratitude for your contribution," he immediately had a violent stress response, his hands waving frantically in front of his chest as he interrupted incoherently, "No, no, no, it wasn't me! It really wasn't me! Someone framed me! Those two letters have nothing to do with me!"
"Hah, a coward who doesn't dare admit what he's done!" Pandora Sol pulled a copy of The Daily Prophet from her crocodile-skin handbag, snapped it open, pointed a corner of the paper at Quirrell, and snorted coldly. "It's printed clearly in the paper—this is the report letter you wrote yourself. Now you're denying it?"
Fudge's gaze was drawn to the newspaper.
It was a partial screenshot of the original letter exposing the extremely low unicorn blood content in Felix Felicis, which The Daily Prophet had specially published earlier to clarify their source.
"That's not my handwriting, really, I... I really didn't write these things... I can swear by Merlin..." Quirrelllooked at the unfamiliar handwriting, feeling as though he were about to cry.
He didn't want to be a hero anymore; a hero wasn't something anyone could just be, and one could still get beaten up even while hiding in Hogwarts.
Fudge had originally intended to continue soothing this "hero" with some official platitudes like "Please trust us, with the Ministry of Magic here, you will be very safe," but when his eyes fell on the screenshot in Pandora's hand, the rest of his words died in his throat.
The handwriting on that paper... Fudge's heart sank abruptly.
Almost subconsciously, he pulled the two letters he had treated as precious treasures from his robe pocket.
He snatched the newspaper from Pandora, ducked to the side, placed the three side-by-side, and compared them meticulously.
The other officials and Aurors who had followed him didn't dare step forward to disturb the Minister, so they gathered around, craning their necks curiously.
Sunlight streamed into the classroom through the tall windows, dust motes dancing in the beams of light.
The air was thick with a strange scent—a mixture of noblewomen's perfume, garlic, and dust.
The classroom was terrifyingly quiet; even the young Wizards could sense the suffocating low pressure at the center of this storm.
Everyone's eyes were fixed on Minister Fudge and the three pieces of parchment in his hands.
One second, two seconds, three seconds... Fudge's face turned from a deep purple to a grayish-white at a speed visible to the naked eye.
His eyes, which weren't large to begin with, were now bulging like two glass beads about to fall out of their sockets.
His chubby hands, which usually waved with such apparent power during speeches, were now shaking like leaves in an autumn wind.
Identical.
One couldn't say they were merely related; they were exactly the same.
Whether it was the unique little hook at the end of the letter "g," the habitual rightward-upward slant of the crossbar on the letter "t," or even the slightly wide spacing between each word... the three letters were written by the same hand.
Fudge felt as if a bucket of ice water had been poured from the crown of his head to his heels, chilling him through and through.
If the letter exposing Felix Felicis was written by Quirrell, then the subsequent two letters reporting Snape and Lucius must naturally have come from his hand as well.
This was a perfect logical loop, the entire basis for Minister Fudge's confidence in standing his ground, making wise decisions, and pushing through all opposition to investigate the case.
But now, Quirrell himself was swearing to the heavens that these three letters had nothing to do with him, not even for a single copper Knut.
This meant there were only two possibilities.
One, Quirrell was lying. He was the informant, but he was a coward.
Fearing retaliation from the House of Malfoy and this group of madwomen, he had flinched at the last moment and denied all his actions.
Two, Quirrell was telling the truth. From beginning to end, these three letters were not written by him.
This was a complete prank targeted at Lucius Malfoy, and even involving Snape and Hogwarts?
At this thought, Fudge's back was instantly drenched in cold sweat.
He would rather believe the first possibility. If it was just Quirrell being cowardly and afraid of trouble, there was still room to maneuver.
As the Minister for Magic, he could fully exercise his power, ignore Quirrell's own denial, and continue with the case. He could resolve Quirrell's concerns later; as long as this investigation was pushed through, he could give everyone an explanation.
He could also accumulate immense prestige and political capital, and no one would dare question his ability again.
But what if it was the second one?
A prank?
As soon as this thought surfaced, Fudge felt his head spin, and he could barely remain standing.
He, Cornelius Fudge, Minister for Magic of Great Britain, future recipient of the Order of Merlin, First Class.
Just because of some prank pulled by some unknown bastard, he had mobilized the elite of the Auror Office and seized the property of a famous Pure-blood family.
He had even locked Lucius Malfoy—the head of a prominent Pure-blood family, a Pure-blood Wizardwith a complex network of connections in the Wizengamot—into a Ministry of Magic interrogation room?
Even more fatally, because of that signed letter of exposure, Lucius was now like a peacock whose magnificent tail feathers had been plucked clean, having been tormented for an entire night in the interrogation room by those reckless brutes of Aurors who didn't know the weight of their actions?!
And he had personally given the damn order!
Fudge felt his breathing become difficult.
He could almost see Lucius's grey eyes, which could spit venom, staring coldly at him through the one-way glass of the interrogation room.
He could also almost hear the questioning and accusations from those Wizards in the Wizengamotcourt who already found him disagreeable.
His political career... was over.
"This... this is impossible..." Fudge finally squeezed out a few words from between his teeth, his voice as dry as if it had been rubbed with sandpaper.
On the other side of the classroom, Harry Potter still wore a look of righteous indignation, his fists clenched tight, completely unaware that the fire he had personally lit was about to burn the Minister for Magic's hat to ashes.
Chapter 126: Quirrell Must Admit It, Whether He Wants To Or Not!
The atmosphere in the Hogwarts Principal's office was even more solemn than it had been in the Defense Against the Dark Arts Class classroom just moments ago.
The office was now packed to the brim with people from the Ministry of Magic.
Fudge plopped down into the armchair opposite Dumbledore, the desk in front of him piled high with Professor Quirrell's handwritten manuscripts.
He had also instructed elite Aurors to cast several spells on the whistleblowing letters with their wands, but the results remained unchanged—the handwriting on the letters had not been magically altered. This added several layers of irritation to his already foul mood.
Quirrell was there too, though he had been squeezed into a corner.
Fudge set the manuscripts down heavily with a sharp 'thwack'.
"Professor Quirrell, what on earth is going on here?" Fudge was the first to attack; he needed an outlet to vent his embarrassment and anger.
Behind him, Scrimgeour, Head of the Auror Office, along with several high-ranking Ministry of Magicofficials, all looked on with stern faces, sizing up Quirrell in the corner with scrutinizing gazes.
Dumbledore, meanwhile, walked over to the fireplace where Quirrell was huddled and handed the still-shivering man a cup of steaming tea.
"Quirinus, drink some; it will make you feel better."
Quirrell's hands shook as he took the teacup. Some of the scalding liquid splashed onto his hand, but he didn't seem to feel it. He took large gulps, as if trying to use the heat to dispel the chill that had seeped into his very bones.
"Now, can you tell me, was what you said in the classroom just now true?" Dumbledore asked softly, his voice possessing a calming power. "Those two whistleblowing letters—were they really not written by you?"
Quirrell looked up, feeling the warmth of the hot tea in his hands, and tears welled up once again.
He nodded vigorously, his voice hoarse: "It really wasn't me, Principal! I swear! Someone is framing me; someone must be trying to kill me..."
He spoke with such sincerity that the heartfelt fear and grievance were almost impossible to fake.
Fudge's brow furrowed into a knot. He was now caught in a dilemma.
If Quirrell was telling the truth, it meant the Ministry of Magic had been played for fools by an unknown party.
This was a consequence Fudge could not accept, so he decided to continue down the path that was most advantageous to himself.
He cleared his throat, leaned forward, and adopted a persuasive expression, his tone softening considerably as if he were soothing a frightened child.
"Professor... Quirrell, don't get worked up just yet. Listen to me."
Fudge's voice was deliberately lowered, sounding kind and earnest. "We all understand your situation. We are well aware of the House of Malfoy's influence. It is only human to feel afraid; it is perfectly understandable. No one will blame you for it."
He paused to observe Quirrell's reaction. Seeing that he was merely shivering while clutching his teacup, Fudge upped the ante.
"However, you must think clearly. You have already taken the bravest step. The entire Wizarding Worldnow sees you as a hero! Countless Wizards are praising your courage; they call you the 'Conscience of Hogwarts,' the 'Whistleblower in the Dark'!"
Fudge's voice began to take on a seductive heat. He waved his chubby hands as if painting a glorious picture.
"So, it would only be natural for you to expose a few more things later on..."
"Think about it, Quirinus. Once this case is solved, you will be awarded the Order of Merlin, First Class! I will personally decorate you!"
At this point, Fudge's voice rose an octave. He even stood up and spread his arms wide: "Hogwarts will be proud of you; your name will be written into the school's history... your portrait will hang in the Ministry of Magic's Gallery of Heroes, alongside those great Wizards who defeated You-Know-Who..."
These words caused many Ministry officials in the office to show looks of envy. An Order of Merlin, First Class, was a glory many Wizards could never achieve in a lifetime of struggle.
Quirrell's expression had been relatively normal while listening to the earlier parts, and he even seemed somewhat moved; for someone as self-deprecating and sensitive as him, this approach was indeed very effective.
But when he heard the words "defeated You-Know-Who," his face instantly turned paler than a corpse, and his body shook like a leaf.
"No... no, I don't want it... I don't want any medals..." He shook his head in terror, burying his face even deeper. "I just... I just want to teach in peace... Please, I beg you, let me go..."
A hero?
He hadn't known before, but everything that happened today was like a bucket of ice water, waking him up completely. How many of those heroes hanging on the walls were actually alive?
Besides, the Dark Lord really was on the back of his head, and he really was plotting to resurrect the Dark Lord. Could this matter ever see the light of day?
If he really became a world-renowned hero as Fudge suggested, would he still be able to steal the Philosopher's Stone?!
Fudge's patience was being exhausted bit by bit.
He couldn't understand how anyone could refuse such immense glory; it was simply irrational!
The smile on his face gradually vanished, replaced by a trace of ill-concealed impatience.
"Professor Quirrell, do you have some concerns? Are you worried about your personal safety?"
Fudge emphasized his tone. "You can rest completely assured on that point! I, Cornelius Fudge, guarantee it in my name as Minister for Magic! We will provide you with the highest level of protection! Twenty-four-hour Auror bodyguards—your office and dormitory will be placed under the most powerful defensive charms!"
Standing behind Fudge, Scrimgeour, the Head of the Aurors, puffed out his chest at the right moment and added: "Yes, with our Auror squad present, absolutely no one can harm a single hair on your head! Even if the Dark Lord returned to life, he couldn't..."
To their surprise, upon hearing this, Quirrell did not feel reassured but instead began to tremble even more violently.
Twenty-four-hour Auror protection?
Then how could the secret on the back of his head remain hidden?
He felt that everything Minister Fudge said was terrifying; every word sounded like a death warrant.
"No... it's not that..." Quirrell's voice now carried a sob; he was practically pleading. "I really didn't write those letters... why won't you believe me..."
"Enough!" Fudge finally lost all patience. He slammed his hand on the desk, the sound making Quirrelljump. The teacup fell to the floor with a 'clatter' and shattered into pieces.
The office fell into a deathly silence.
The last trace of feigned gentleness vanished from his fat face, replaced by a madness born of being pushed to the edge of a cliff.
Because he had realized that only by making Quirrell admit to being the whistleblower would he have a way out. Even if it was eventually discovered that the allegations were baseless, he could shift all the blame onto Quirrell.
Fudge's own responsibility would be minimized, and people's anger would not be directed at him.
After all, it was Quirrell who had 'personally' exposed it and 'insisted' on reporting it; the Ministry of Magic had simply been misled.
So he decided that today, he must choose the path that was most beneficial to himself.
Quirrell would have to admit it, whether he wanted to or not!
Chapter 127: Force-Feeding Him Veritaserum
"Quirinus Quirrell!" Fudge stood up, looking down at him from above, the fat on his face trembling with rage.
"Don't be ungrateful! This isn't just about you anymore; it concerns the overall situation of the Magical World's struggle against Dark Wizards!"
His roar echoed in the office, every word like a heavy hammer smashing ruthlessly against Quirrell's fragile nerves.
"Or rather..." Fudge's voice dropped suddenly, sounding exasperated, "Have you actually joined the Dark Lord's side... working for the Dark Lord's resurrection?! Is that why you don't dare admit you were the whistleblower?"
"Are you afraid of your accomplices' retaliation, or are you afraid of your new master's punishment?!"
Boom!
These words were like a bolt of black lightning striking Quirrell... He jerked his head up, his eyes filled with extreme, unspeakable horror.
Fudge... how could he know?
Seeing Quirrell's terrified state, Fudge felt a surge of smugness. He didn't actually think Quirrell was a Death Eater remnant; he was just using these words to intimidate him.
Interrogation was like this: either coaxing or intimidation!
Judging by Quirrell's performance, it had clearly succeeded. Fudge felt that interrogation wasn't so hard after all. Had he known earlier, he should have interrogated Lucius personally; perhaps the case would have been solved long ago.
"I hit the mark, didn't I?" Fudge straightened up, looking smug.
Then, following up on his advantage, he waved his arms excitedly, spit flying everywhere: "If you don't cooperate honestly with us, then we'll have to thoroughly investigate your issues first..."
Quirrell was completely stunned.
He wanted to shake his head, but his neck was as stiff as if it had been petrified. He could only gape like a fish out of water, making a "hark-hark" rasping sound in his throat.
If he didn't cooperate... Fudge would investigate him, but could he withstand an investigation?!
Once his secrets were discovered, the label of being a Dark Lord remnant would be set in stone. He would likewise be thrown into Azkaban immediately, and then the Dementors would suck him dry!
But if he did cooperate, that didn't seem to work either. After all, his own plan to resurrect his master hadn't made much progress, and he couldn't even make up details about Lucius and Snape conspiring to resurrect the Dark Lord!
This... this was a dead end whichever way he turned!
"No... I... I'm not..." Quirrell finally squeezed out a few words from between his teeth, his voice trembling uncontrollably, filled with a sob, "I really... am not..."
"Enough! I see you're being dishonest..." Fudge had now seized control of the interrogation's rhythm. With a wave of his hand, he ordered Scrimgeour, "Take him back and lock him in the interrogation room! Use Veritaserum; I want him to spill everything..."
Veritaserum!?
These words were like an Imperio curse, instantly draining away Quirrell's last shred of sanity.
He was terrified and dazed.
If being mobbed by a group of noble ladies just now was physical pain and a loss of dignity, then Veritaserum would truly dig out all his secrets!
"No—!"
A shrill, inhuman scream erupted from Quirrell's throat. Like a cat whose tail had been stepped on, he suddenly bounced off the ground and turned, wanting to bash his head against the wall, seemingly preferring to die than face such an end.
"Quiet."
A calm, steady voice, yet one carrying unquestionable power, sounded softly, instantly choking off all the frenzied noise in the office.
Scrimgeour's half-drawn wand stopped. The two Aurors who were about to step forward and seize Quirrell also froze in place.
"Cornelius."
Albus Dumbledore had been standing by the whole time. His blue eyes behind half-moon spectacles were like two deep lakes, quietly watching this absurd performance.
It wasn't until Fudge ordered the arrest and the use of Veritaserum that he finally spoke.
"You just said that Professor Quirrell has joined Lord Voldemort," Dumbledore's voice wasn't loud, but it reached everyone's ears clearly. "I would like to ask, do you have any evidence?"
Fudge's movements froze. He jerked his head back and met Dumbledore's eyes, which seemed to see through everything, and felt an inexplicable sense of guilt.
"Evidence? His... his reaction just now is the best evidence!" Fudge shouted with forced bravado. "Albus, didn't you see? He was so scared by me that he couldn't even speak. We've reached a critical moment in the interrogation; of course, we need to use some special methods..."
"Oh?" Dumbledore adjusted his glasses, his tone remaining calm. "I only saw a Professor who was mobbed by dozens of noble ladies and suffered great physical and mental trauma, falling into extreme panic under your baseless accusations and roars. I think anyone facing groundless accusations would find it hard to remain calm, wouldn't they?"
He paused, his gaze sweeping over Fudge and then over the Aurors holding their wands, a subtle coldness entering his voice.
"Or is it, Cornelius, that the Ministry of Magic now handles cases without needing evidence, relying entirely on your personal conjectures and... intimidation?"
"Albus! This is an emergency..." Fudge roared, exasperated.
"Half an hour ago, Professor Quirrell was the 'whistleblower' you said deserved our highest honors."
"How is it that in the blink of an eye, he has become a'suspect' who needs to be interrogated with Veritaserum?"
Dumbledore adjusted his glasses, a faint curve appearing at the corner of his mouth, his expression like he was discussing an interesting Potion problem.
"If he were taken back to the Ministry of Magic by you, would he also become a criminal conspiring to resurrect the Dark Lord?"
Fudge felt his mind go blank; he understood the implication behind Dumbledore's words!
Fudge's lips trembled as cold sweat slid down his chubby cheeks, soaking his stiffly starched collar.
He didn't dare argue, deeply afraid that Dumbledore would expose his little scheme of finding someone to take the blame.
"I... I'm doing this for... for the Ministry of Magic..." he stammered incoherently.
At this tense moment, an unexpected accident occurred.
There was a dull "thud."
Professor Quirrell, who had been at the center of the storm, finally couldn't take it anymore after hearing Dumbledore call him a criminal conspiring to resurrect Lord Voldemort.
His eyes rolled back, his legs gave way, and like a deflated sack of potatoes, he fell straight backward and fainted on the spot.
The entire office fell into an eerie silence.
Everyone stared dumbfounded at the unconscious "heap of mud" on the floor.
Fudge was even more stunned.
How... how was the case supposed to proceed now?
He looked at the unconscious Quirrell on the floor. He wanted to take him away, but it was clear that Dumbledore, standing before him, would not allow it.
But if the standoff continued, he would lose face in front of his subordinates. Thinking of this, Fudgesuddenly whipped his robes and said, "We're leaving!"
With that, he rushed toward the fireplace without looking back, grabbed a handful of Floo Powder, and disappeared in a burst of green flames.
The other Ministry officials looked at each other and had no choice but to follow the Minister, entering one by one.
Scrimgeour was the last to leave. He glanced at Dumbledore, then at Quirrell on the floor, and stepped into the flames.
Chapter 128: How to End This?
The door to the Minister for Magic's office slammed shut, and Cornelius Fudge dove into his territory like a wild boar being chased by hounds for three days and nights.
Cornelius Fudge tore off his bright red tie, as if trying to win himself a little more breathing room.
Rufus Scrimgeour followed him in without a word; he closed the door and cast a Silencing Charm with his wand, firmly locking the Minister's roars inside the room.
He wasn't as anxious as Fudge, merely standing aside and watching Fudge spin around the office like a top, constantly cursing everything from Dumbledore's favoritism to Quirrell's cowardice, and then to those noble ladies who were more hindrance than help.
"And that idiot Longbottom! He can't even control his own wife! Letting her lead a group of madwomen to storm Hogwarts and beat our... key witness in front of everyone!"
Fudge stopped abruptly and slammed a fist onto the mahogany desk, making the inkwell jump. "Now it's just great—the witness fainted from fright, Dumbledore is guarding them so tightly I can't even touch a hair! The case can't even be investigated anymore..."
Scrimgeour finally spoke, his voice raspy like sandpaper rubbing against wood. "Minister, our biggest trouble right now isn't Dumbledore. It's Lucius Malfoy. He's still in the interrogation room and has been there all night; we must find a way to wrap this up."
Fudge's steps halted. He slumped into his high-backed chair, which let out a groan under the burden.
He knew where the problem lay; even if Lucius Malfoy were released now, the matter wouldn't be over.
That old fox Lucius was vindictive; he certainly had the power to make Fudge's term as Minister end prematurely amidst the questioning of those old fogies in the Wizengamot.
Fudge closed his eyes, and the image of Lucius's cold, calculating gray eyes surfaced in his mind, making him shudder involuntarily.
"How is he now?" Fudge's voice was a bit hoarse.
"Immediately after returning from Hogwarts, I had the subordinates stop the interrogation and moved him to a lounge with hot tea." Scrimgeour walked to the liquor cabinet and poured two glasses of Firewhisky for himself, the amber liquid swirling in the crystal glasses. He pushed one toward Fudge.
"He's clamoring now, demanding an explanation from us..."
Fudge didn't answer immediately; instead, he picked up the glass and gulped down most of it, the spicy liquid burning his throat.
"An explanation? What explanation can I give him?" Fudge looked up, his eyes bloodshot. "Tell him, 'Hey, Lucius, we made a mistake, so we accidentally seized your property and tossed you into an interrogation room to mess with you all night, really sorry'—what do you think he'd think of that?"
He grew more agitated as he spoke, his fat face turning a deep purplish-red. Truth be told, if he were the one being treated like that, he would have set the entire Ministry of Magic on fire.
Lucius Malfoy was no saint either; he would use every clause he could find in the Ministry of Magic to sue them into bankruptcy and ruin their reputations.
"So we cannot admit we were wrong." Scrimgeour walked to the desk, leaning forward with his hands on the surface, his sharp eyes staring directly at Fudge. "We certainly aren't wrong; we just haven't finished the investigation. After all, no one can say for certain that this matter doesn't exist."
Fudge was stunned, looking at Scrimgeour, his mind not quite catching up for a moment. Right, who could say the Ministry was wrong? It was just... not fully investigated... "As for Lucius Malfoy," Scrimgeour's voice dropped low, carrying a hint of deviousness, "we start with 'Felix Felicis'. I think those people at the International Association of Magic Trade Standards will have a way. For example, this product was exported without prior approval, leading to numerous reports..."
Fudge's eyes brightened; it sounded like a decent excuse.
"We use this reason to set a minor charge, fine him a bit, and then release him—his matter will be considered concluded. This way, our seizure of his business gains legitimacy, and you won't have completely botched the case. There will be an explanation for the public as well."
As Fudge listened, his brow furrowed deeper. He shook his head; the proposal sounded good, but it wasn't enough. "No. Rufus, such a small matter isn't nearly enough to justify the measures we took before; it's far from a sufficient explanation..."
The office fell into silence again. Fudge's breathing was heavy and suppressed. He knew he had been pushed to the edge of a cliff.
"Minister, you're overthinking things. Our enemy isn't Lucius, nor is it Dumbledore—it's this case..."
Fudge's eyes suddenly lit up; like a drowning man, he seemed to have caught a lifeline.
Scrimgeour's voice dropped even lower, almost a whisper. "So, there's no need to dwell on who's right or wrong in this matter. We only need to do two things. First, release Lucius Malfoy immediately. Second, this case must, of course, continue to be investigated... and the key lies with Quirrell... As long as this case is brought to light, who could say you were wrong?"
"Right..." Fudge's tone suddenly rose a few notches. He slapped his thigh hard, as if having a sudden epiphany.
Yes, as long as the case was cleared up, even if the matter didn't exist, the final responsibility would naturally fall on the false accuser!
No one could say he, as Minister, had neglected his duties; instead, it would be a show of diligence!
Scrimgeour continued, "So for now, we appease Lucius. We tell him that this investigation was decided with Dumbledore's participation, and as for releasing him now, that is also Dumbledore's intention..."
Fudge's heart began to race because he understood Scrimgeour's deeper meaning. This wasn't wrong; originally, it was because Dumbledore disagreed with investigating Snape that the Ministry had to investigate Lucius first.
Given Malfoy's wariness of Dumbledore, he naturally wouldn't dare to keep pestering the Ministry over this matter. Because continuing to do so would mean questioning Dumbledore.
The case still had to proceed, acting as a Sword of Damocles hanging over his head. Even if Lucius had complaints, he wouldn't dare cause trouble after leaving.
"But... but we've still offended Lucius terribly!" Fudge still had some lingering worries.
Even if Lucius didn't dare to retaliate openly, Fudge believed that as long as there was an opportunity to stab him in the back in the future, Lucius would certainly not let it pass.
Scrimgeour thought for a moment and said, "We need to give him some benefits. I suggest you deeply tie his 'Felix Felicis' to the Ministry of Magic." Scrimgeour proposed a bold and ingenious suggestion.
"Recommend this Potion, or include it in the list of British Innovative Magical Products, providing certain tax rebates and support, and tell everyone that 'Felix Felicis' is a safe and harmless product certified by the Ministry of Magic."
Fudge's eyes grew wider and wider, and his mouth slowly opened like a fish out of water. He stared intently at Scrimgeour, as if meeting this subordinate for the first time.
"By then, Lucius Malfoy will have gained plenty of Galleons, and the Felix Felicis business will be firmly tied to you, the Minister. Could he still oppose you?" Scrimgeour's voice was steady, but every word was like a key, unlocking all the shackles in Fudge's heart.
"Brilliant! Truly brilliant!" Fudge slapped his thigh hard with a resounding 'thwack'. His whole being came alive, the dejection on his face swept away and replaced by a morbid excitement.
This way, no matter how much anger Lucius had, he would have to turn around and thank Cornelius Fudge.
At this point, Scrimgeour's expression grew a bit more serious as he reminded him, "As for Quirrell, I very much agree with your judgment at the time, because Quirrell's expression then was very suspicious and clearly problematic. However, we must first ease relations with him to reduce his resistance and wariness... but I'm afraid this task isn't something our Auror Office can complete independently!"
His words were airtight, affirming Fudge's 'wisdom' while skillfully pushing away this hot potato.
"You're right, this matter isn't the responsibility of your Auror Office," Fudge nodded repeatedly, showing his recognition of Scrimgeour's professionalism and satisfaction with his dedication, while also hearing the other's subtle evasion of this mess.
"Hmph, damn Dodds," at the thought that the mess was caused by his Office Director, Fudge grew furious, as if finding another outlet for his anger. "This is the mess his wife caused; I'll have him go and apologize and handle this matter..."
Chapter 129: Truly a Medical Miracle
Outside the Principal's office, at the entrance to the spiral staircase leading to the top floor, the atmosphere was somewhat strange.
Harry, Ron, and Hermione stood like statues hit by a Petrificus Totalus, necks craned motionlessly, trying to catch any sound from the tightly closed door crack.
Harry's brow was twisted like a knotted rope, his face full of worry and indignation.
"Will they do something to Professor Quirrell? Minister Fudge's expression didn't look very good..." Ronmuttered quietly, his face appearing paler than usual due to nervousness, making his freckles even more prominent.
"With Dumbledore there, no one can harm him!" Harry's voice was low, his face etched with concern.
Hermione wrung her fingers anxiously, her brow furrowed. "I'm more worried that the Ministry people seem to have something very important to discuss with Professor Quirrell..."
While the three of them were as anxious as ants on a hot pan, Signas Shalk was leaning leisurely against the cold stone wall like an outsider, holding a colorful book and reading with great interest.
The title was peculiar—'The Culinary Arts of Magical Plants'.
Ron poked his head over, looking confused. "Sig, what time do you think it is? How do you have the heart to read a cookbook? And aren't you best at Potions? Why have you been studying food lately?"
"The ultimate end of Potions is gourmet food; you wouldn't understand." Signas didn't even look up as he flipped a page, muttering to himself.
He didn't actually want to be a chef, of course.
Ever since he had drawn that legendary batch of 'Honesty Beans' from the lottery, Sig had been pondering how to maximize their effects.
While Veritaserum was useful, it wasn't easy to brew and needed to be used quickly; its effects would diminish greatly over time.
These Honesty Beans were different. They originated from nature, their magic was innate, and they carried the effect of Veritaserum naturally. If used to brew a new Potion, he might create something even more potent than Veritaserum.
But a new Potion wasn't so easily developed, so he thought of seeking inspiration from these ancient culinary books.
Ancient Wizards didn't distinguish so clearly between Potions and food; many powerful magical effects were born from a pot of stew.
Harry and Ron were left in a fog, looking at each other. Hermione was thoughtful, but the current situation left her with no heart to explore academic questions.
"Stop talking about useless things," Signas Shalk closed the book and glanced at them lazily. "The one you should be worried about isn't Quirrell, but yourselves. Minister Fudge has already seen the handwriting on that letter, and they even took Professor Quirrell's writing for comparison..."
The faces of the three turned pale instantly. They had been so busy worrying about Quirrell that they completely forgot they were the instigators of this storm.
"Then... then we..." Ron's voice shook like a leaf in the wind.
Just then, a steady sound of footsteps came from down the stairs.
A shadow lengthened, and a tall, thin, gloomy figure appeared before them. His black robes were like flowing ink, and his pale face wore its eternal expression of mockery.
It was Snape.
"Potter, Weasley, Granger... and Shalk." Snape's gaze, like a scalpel, scraped across each of their faces.
His mouth twitched imperceptibly; these were all young Wizards he disliked.
His gaze finally rested on Harry, and his voice was greasy and cold. "It seems the Savior is even busier than I imagined. One might think you were the Minister of magic..."
Harry stiffened his neck, wanting to retort, but was stared into silence by Snape's obsidian-like eyes.
Beside him, Signas Shalk was not at all polite. "Harry is just quite like his mother, full of compassion, isn't he!"
Snape's expression instantly soured further, as if he had swallowed a fly.
He stared fixedly at Signas, as if trying to pierce through him with his gaze. "Shalk, do not think your little cleverness will allow you to run rampant in Hogwarts. One day, it will lead you somewhere you absolutely do not want to go..."
Having said that, he ignored the brats who were eyesores to him, flicked his robes, and walked straight toward the gargoyle at the office door.
He whispered the password 'Sherbet Lemon,' and the gargoyle jumped aside, revealing the spiral staircase behind it.
At the entrance, the three didn't dare to breathe until Snape's figure completely disappeared.
"Why... why did he come too?" Ron patted his chest, still feeling lingering fear.
"Perhaps Professor Dumbledore called him," Hermione guessed, but her expression showed she was not at all comforted by the thought.
Meanwhile, inside the Principal's office.
The Ministry people had just left, and now McGonagall and Sprout were surrounding the unconscious Quirrell.
"I'll go get Madam Pomfrey!" Professor Sprout said, preparing to head out.
"His condition is very poor..." Professor McGonagall crouched down. "His body seems extremely weak!"
Dumbledore stood to the side, his long silver beard hanging over his chest. In his blue eyes behind half-moon spectacles, the usual gentleness had long vanished, replaced by deep contemplation.
Just then, the sound of the gargoyle mechanism moving rang out, and Snape entered.
He saw the chaos in the center of the room and the unconscious Quirrell on the floor at a glance, and his brow immediately furrowed.
"It seems I missed a good show."
"Severus, you've come at the right time." Dumbledore turned to him, his tone serious. "Help me check on Quirinus's condition."
Snape walked over reluctantly.
He hated Quirrell, hated the smell of garlic on him, and hated that stuttering cowardice of his.
But he still crouched down, extending two pale fingers to touch Quirrell's burning forehead.
The temperature from his fingertips startled him as well. Quirrell's face was flushed red, his lips were cracked, and his breathing was rapid and weak.
Snape peeled back his eyelids to look; the pupils were somewhat dilated. This was definitely not just a case of excessive shock.
"Extreme emotional distress, magical turbulence, and very weak mental strength." Snape gave a professional diagnosis, his voice losing some mockery and gaining some gravity. "It's as if he was forced to drink an entire bottle of Blood-Burning Agent and then hit with ten Imperios..."
Professor McGonagall and Professor Sprout gasped.
"Is there any way?" Dumbledore asked.
Snape stood up, his gaze falling on the iconic purple turban on Quirrell's head. The turban had become skewed in the earlier scuffle, but it still stubbornly wrapped around the back of his head.
"His body heat cannot dissipate right now; this turban is wrapped too tightly." Snape's tone left no room for doubt. "It must be unwrapped immediately to let him cool down... better yet, send him to St. Mungo's immediately for a thorough full-body check to see what exactly is wrong inside him..."
Dumbledore and McGonagall exchanged a look, both feeling the suggestion was reasonable. Saving the person was the priority.
"Very well, let's do that." Dumbledore nodded in agreement.
Professor McGonagall immediately stepped forward, reaching out to unwrap the turban that emitted a strong smell of garlic.
However, at the very moment her fingertips were about to touch the purple fabric—
"No need!"
A sharp, hoarse shout made everyone stop their movements.
Quirrell, who was supposed to be unconscious and at death's door, actually forced his eyes open!
In his bloodshot eyes, a kind of madness born of desperation erupted. He sat up abruptly from the floor, scrambling backward to avoid Professor McGonagall's hand.
"I... I'm fine." He propped himself up on the floor and stood up shakily, like a reed in the autumn wind. "Just... just a bit dizzy. I'll go... go back to my room and rest, and I'll be fine."
Then, under the stunned gazes of Dumbledore, McGonagall, Sprout, and Snape, Professor Quirrellmoved like a marionette, taking stiff steps as he shuffled toward the door, then pulled it open and stumbled away into the spiral staircase.
In the office, there was a deathly silence.
After a long while, Professor McGonagall finally found her voice. Looking in the direction Quirrell had disappeared, she murmured, "Merlin's beard... this is truly... a medical miracle."
Standing to the side, Snape, hearing Professor McGonagall's exclamation, actually nodded subconsciously.
Chapter 130: Then I Can Only Steal It
At the end of the spiral staircase, Quirrell, like a mollusk with its bones removed, leaned against the cold wall, panting heavily.
He felt his heart about to leap out of his throat, and a sharp, stinging pain in the back of his head, as if countless red-hot steel needles were stirring inside.
He could feel his life force being continuously drained. His terrible physical condition made him want to drink some Felix Felicis.
"Useless! You useless good-for-nothing!" A cold, hoarse voice, filled with resentment, exploded deep in his mind. "Almost! Just a little bit more! Our entire plan would have been ruined by you, you idiot!"
"Master... I... I didn't mean to..." Quirrell wailed inwardly, fear and pain making his tears flow uncontrollably.
"Shut up!" The voice snapped, with a hint of weakness. "If I hadn't used my last bit of strength to make you conscious just now, your turban would have been pulled off!"
Quirrell's body trembled even more violently.
He leaned against the wall, moving his feet with difficulty, finally stepping out of the stairwell. Looking up, he saw four young faces, each with a different expression.
Harry Potter, Ron Weasley, Hermione Granger, and that Slytherin, Cygnus Sharke, who always had an expression like he was watching a show.
Seeing Quirrell emerge, Harry was the first to rush forward, his face filled with the pure, untainted concern unique to a youth who had not yet experienced the world.
"Professor! Are you alright? Minister Fudge and the others didn't do anything to you, did they?" Harry's voice trembled with excitement. "Don't worry, we all saw it! Those unreasonable women started it first! You are a true hero!"
Ron also followed, nodding vigorously: "Yes, Professor, don't be afraid! Headmaster Dumbledore will definitely see justice done for you!"
Although Hermione didn't speak, her brown eyes were full of worry and admiration.
Hero... Hearing this word, Quirrell's body stiffened. He looked up at Harry's emerald green eyes, which held no impurities, only pure, unreserved trust and adoration.
This was a gaze he had never seen in anyone's eyes before.
Since childhood, he had been an object of ridicule and neglect. Because of his cowardice, he was always the most inconspicuous one in the crowd.
He craved recognition, longed to be the center of attention, which ultimately led to a desire for power, prompting him to seek the Dark Lord's power.
But now, this boy who lived, this savior on whom the entire Magical World placed great hopes, was looking at him with such eyes.
An indescribable, complex emotion, mixed with bitterness, warmth, and shame, instantly surged into Quirrell's heart.
His heart, which had long been filled with fear and despair, suddenly felt a long-lost warmth.
If he could, being a hero wouldn't be so bad after all!
But this thought was just a fleeting one, followed by deeper despair. He had no way out.
"I... I'm fine, Mr. Potter." Quirrell's voice was still a bit hoarse, but he tried to straighten his back a little, forcing a smile that was uglier than crying. "Thank you... thank you for your concern."
At that very moment, the needle-like stinging pain in the back of his head suddenly became incredibly intense!
Lord Voldemort suddenly became active in Quirrell's mind, causing Quirrell's head to buzz and almost pass out again.
He subconsciously followed Lord Voldemort's "perception" and looked over. The nearby Sig was like a blazing lighthouse, that pure and immense life energy even more tempting than the unicorn blood he had consumed.
Signas was leaning against the wall, bored, his copy of "The Culinary Arts of Magical Plants" still in his hand, seemingly studying what to eat for his next meal.
The Defense Against the Dark Arts Professor's office, as always, was filled with a strong garlic scent.
Quirrell crashed through the door, then locked it tightly from the inside, as if there were some monstrous flood beasts outside.
He leaned his back against the cold door, his body sliding down to the floor like a pile of mud, gasping violently.
His once well-tailored velvet robe was now wrinkled, stained with what looked like a noblewoman's face powder and lipstick marks, appearing quite comical.
One might think he had just returned from a date, having undergone a fierce "battle."
"That Slytherin boy has something on him that can help me regain my strength..." Lord Voldemort's voice rang out again, this time, no longer just excitement, but an undeniable command.
"Wh-what exactly is it?" Quirrell stammered.
"I don't know." Lord Voldemort's voice held a trace of confusion and gravity. "But I can feel that it's more useful to me than unicorn blood..."
Silence.
In the office, only Quirrell's heavy breathing could be heard.
After a long while, Lord Voldemort's voice sounded again, with absolute authority.
"Whatever it is, we must have it! With it, I should be able to regain some strength, and perhaps even directly help you undo the enchantment on that trapdoor!"
Quirrell's heart, however, sank to the bottom.
He was in a terrible state.
Not only had Signas blackmailed him for money, but his master had also drained a lot of his life force, and the Ministry of Magic was still watching him closely. He hadn't even had time to catch his breath before being assigned a new task.
Before, it was always Cygnus Sharke extorting things from him; now he was being asked, Quirrell, to get Signas's treasure. This task didn't look easy at all.
"Master... this Shalk... he's not easy to deal with." Quirrell tried to make a final struggle. "And he's a Slytherin student. If we touch him, it will definitely alarm Snape..."
"Snape?" Lord Voldemort sneered, his laughter filled with contempt. "Are you afraid of him?"
"I... I'm not afraid..."
"Then do it!" Lord Voldemort roughly interrupted him. "I only want results! Use that brain of yours, stuffed with garlic, and find a way to get that thing... That way, we can get the Philosopher's Stoneinside..."
He knew he had no choice now.
Quirrell didn't know what tip the Ministry of Magic had received, but this matter was definitely not over. Fudge had almost guessed his secret... so he had to act quickly and get the Philosopher's Stone soon...
As Lord Voldemort fell silent, Quirrell leaned against the wall, struggled to his feet, and sat back in his chair.
Directly snatching it wouldn't work. In the Castle, in plain sight, if he failed, he would be completely exposed.
Poison? Or use dark curses?
Quirrell immediately dismissed this idea. Signas's Potions skills were very high; ordinary poisons would be useless against him. As for dark curses, he did know a few Dark Arts spells that could silently incapacitate someone, but the risk was equally immense. There were several charm masters at Hogwarts, and even a slight fluctuation of Dark Arts could expose him.
Then he could only... steal it.
Quirrell sat in the darkness, his eyes flickering erratically.