Even after multiple visits, the Ministry of Magic never failed to impress.
I arrived through the Atrium Floo with a soft rush of emerald flames, stepping out onto polished black stone already buzzing with tension. Wizards and witches hurried across the floor in tight clusters, their voices low, urgent. The golden statues at the center of the Atrium gleamed as always, frozen in their idealized tableau, but today they felt less like symbols of pride and more like silent witnesses.
Something had gone very wrong.
I adjusted my robes, grimacing faintly at the plum fabric, and made my way toward the lifts. The usual fanfare was noticeably muted. A few heads turned, a few whispers followed me, but there were no smiles, no requests for autographs, no ill-timed attempts at conversation. That alone told me this meeting was not routine.
The lift deposited me outside the Wizengamot chamber, its tall bronze doors already open. Inside, the circular hall was slowly filling, tiered benches rising steeply around the central floor. Enchanted torches burned with steady blue-white flames, casting long shadows that climbed the stone walls like grasping fingers.
I stepped inside.
"Lord Lockhart," came a smooth voice from my left.
I turned to see Lord Greengrass, immaculate as ever, his plum robes pressed to perfection. His expression was polite, but his eyes were sharp.
"Lord Greengrass," I said, offering a courteous nod. "I take it this is not a social call."
He snorted softly. "If it were, we would not have been summoned at dawn."
Fair enough.
Further along, Lucius Malfoy stood near his usual seat, cane resting lightly against his gloved palm. His pale hair was pulled back neatly, his expression carefully neutral. When his eyes met mine, one corner of his mouth twitched upward in something that might have been a greeting.
"Lord Lockhart," he said smoothly. "Early hour for bureaucracy."
"Lord Malfoy, crisis waits for no one," I replied mildly.
His gaze lingered on me a fraction longer than necessary before he turned away. Whatever had happened, Malfoy already knew more than he was letting on. He always did.
I took another step forward and nearly collided with Madam Longbottom, who looked far more formidable here than she ever did in private. Her posture was rigid, her mouth set in a thin line that spoke of restrained fury rather than fear.
"Gilderoy," she said curtly. "Do you know why we're here?"
"I'm afraid not," I answered honestly.
Her jaw tightened. "Then brace yourself."
That was not encouraging.
I moved to my seat as the last members of the Wizengamot filtered in. The doors boomed shut behind them with finality, and a hush settled over the chamber, heavy and expectant. Even the enchanted quills at the clerks' desks seemed to pause.
Dumbledore rose from his place with unhurried grace.
The murmurs died instantly.
"Members of the Wizengamot," he said calmly, his voice carrying without effort to every corner of the chamber. "Thank you for assembling on such short notice."
His gaze swept the room, lingering nowhere, yet somehow touching everyone.
"This meeting has been called under extraordinary circumstances," he continued. "And as such, I will defer immediately to the Minister of Magic."
He stepped aside.
Cornelius Fudge stood.
If ever there was a man ill-suited to bear catastrophic news, it was Cornelius Fudge. He clutched his bowler hat in both hands, wringing it as though he might throttle it into cooperation. His face was pale, his eyes darting nervously across the chamber.
"My lords and ladies," he began, voice wavering just slightly. "I… I regret to inform you that there has been a catastrophic security breach."
A ripple of tension moved through the benches.
"Earlier tonight," Fudge continued, swallowing, "Azkaban Prison suffered a massive jailbreak."
The words landed like a curse.
For a heartbeat, the chamber was utterly silent.
Then voices erupted.
"What?" "How many?" "Impossible!" "The dementors…"
Fudge raised his hands frantically. "Please! Please!"
The noise subsided, though only barely.
"All known Death Eaters held in Azkaban," he said hoarsely, "have escaped. Along with several other high-risk prisoners."
That was worse.
"And," he added, almost as an afterthought, "twelve guards were killed in the process."
A cold weight settled in my stomach.
Fudge dabbed his forehead with a handkerchief and pressed on. "There is… there is evidence that they did not act alone. That they were aided by an external force."
A murmur rippled through the chamber again, darker this time.
"The Ministry believes," Fudge said, lifting his head with something approaching resolve, "that this was the work of Sirius Black."
I felt my expression still.
Around the chamber, reactions varied from grim nods to outright outrage. A convenient culprit. An easy one.
But I knew better.
As if drawn by the same thought, I looked toward Dumbledore and our eyes met.
In that brief, silent exchange, no words were needed.
This was not Sirius.
This was far too large. Far too coordinated. Far too deliberate.
This had Tom's fingerprints all over it.
And if Azkaban itself could be broken open so completely, then the war we had been cautiously circling had just stepped out of the shadows and into the open.
The Wizengamot chamber suddenly felt much smaller.
And much colder.
…
The debate dragged on far longer than it should have.
Voices rose and fell in cycles, suggestions piling atop one another only to collapse under their own weight. Committees were proposed. Task forces. Temporary measures with impressive names and very little substance. Every solution seemed carefully crafted to avoid one thing above all else: responsibility.
No one wanted this to become a political catastrophe.
I listened as members argued about public perception, about international reaction, about how much panic the words "Azkaban breakout" would cause if mishandled. They spoke of damage control, of statements to the press, of reassuring the public that everything was under control, even as it clearly was not.
What few practical suggestions were raised ran into the same immovable wall.
Manpower.
"The Auror Office simply doesn't have the numbers," Madam Bones said at one point, her voice tight with barely restrained anger. "We're already stretched thin as it is."
Fudge shifted uncomfortably in his seat. Someone else muttered something about reallocating resources. Another suggested temporary volunteers, which earned them a withering look from Bones.
The truth, unspoken but painfully obvious, hung in the air.
The Aurors were understaffed because the Minister himself had bled them dry.
Budget cuts, year after year, justified with speeches about peaceful times and unnecessary militarisation. It was all very economical when nothing went wrong. Catastrophic when everything did.
An hour in, the room felt stale. Tempers were fraying. The same arguments circled endlessly, accomplishing nothing. Fudge looked more harried by the minute, his bowler hat now resting limp and abused in his lap.
I had enough.
I stood.
The sound of my staff hitting the stone floor cut cleanly through the noise. Conversations faltered, then died altogether as attention turned toward me. I could feel the weight of dozens of gazes, curious, wary, expectant.
"Talking in circles will not put a single Auror back on the streets," I said calmly. "Nor will it recapture a single escaped prisoner."
A few people shifted uncomfortably.
"The problem, as Madam Bones has rightly pointed out, is resources," I continued. "And resources, inconvenient as it may be, can be supplemented."
Fudge looked up, eyes flickering with interest.
"I will donate one hundred thousand galleons to the Auror Office," I said evenly. "Effective immediately."
The reaction was immediate.
Gasps. Whispers. Sharp inhales. I caught sight of several heads snapping in my direction, calculations already being made behind polite expressions.
Before Fudge could speak, I added, "Specifically earmarked for recruitment, training, and equipment."
That mattered.
Almost at once, others began to follow suit. Smaller donations, to be sure, but meaningful nonetheless. Five thousand here. Ten thousand there. Lucius Malfoy inclined his head thoughtfully and named a figure that caused several eyebrows to rise, doubling my own donation. The momentum shifted, the stalemate finally cracking.
I watched Fudge closely.
His eyes gleamed.
Not with relief, but with greed.
Before he could latch onto that momentum and twist it into something self-serving, I turned slightly and addressed Madam Bones directly.
"Amelia," I said, deliberately using her given name, "I expect full transparency regarding the use of these funds."
The word full was not accidental.
Her eyes sharpened instantly. She followed my gaze, saw where it briefly flicked, and understood.
She shot Fudge a glance that could have stripped paint from walls.
"You'll have it," she said firmly. "Detailed reports. Itemised expenses. Every galleon. Every sickle. Every single knut."
Fudge opened his mouth, then closed it again.
There was a brief, uncomfortable silence.
"Hem. Hem~"
Every head turned.
Dolores Umbridge had risen from her seat.
I had not noticed her until that moment, which in itself felt like a small miracle. She was wearing plum Wizengamot robes identical to mine, and somehow, impossibly, she had managed to make them look almost as horrendous as her usual pink cardigan. The colour clashed violently with her complexion, and the saccharine smile she wore did nothing to soften the effect.
"As the Minister's Undersecretary," she said sweetly, hands clasped in front of her, "I believe I am the most appropriate person to oversee the administration of these funds and ensure they are put to their very best use."
I resisted the urge to sigh.
Fudge's head turned toward her, hope flickering in his eyes.
Then another voice spoke.
"I must disagree."
Lucius Malfoy stood.
The chamber stilled again, this time in genuine surprise.
"As one of the donors," Malfoy continued smoothly, "I have complete confidence in Madam Bones' ability to manage the funds efficiently and without bias."
Umbridge's smile froze.
Colour crept up her neck, staining her cheeks a furious red. She opened her mouth, thought better of it, and snapped it shut again. Fudge shifted, clearly torn, but Malfoy was not just a member of the Wizengamot.
He was one of Fudge's greatest benefactors.
Several eyebrows rose at Malfoy's declaration, mine included. A few members exchanged glances, clearly reassessing old assumptions. After a moment, nods followed. Agreement spread quickly, like a decision everyone was relieved not to have to argue about.
"It's settled, then," Dumbledore said mildly, reclaiming the floor without effort. "Madam Bones will oversee the funds."
Umbridge sat down stiffly, lips pressed into a thin line.
As the meeting finally began to wind down, I found myself watching Malfoy from the corner of my eye.
That had not been altruism.
Lucius Malfoy never acted without reason.
And I could not yet tell whether his intervention was meant to help the Aurors… or complicate matters in ways that had not yet revealed themselves.
Either way, one thing was certain.
The board had shifted.
And everyone in the room knew it.
…