HP: The Duelist of Hogwarts - 445

Chapter 445: Dumbledore’s Choice

Dumbledore’s gaze moved slowly over the Ministry officials and Aurors crowding the room, most of them staunch pure‑blood supremacists. His eyes rested for a heartbeat on Umbridge, who was clutching Fudge’s corpse, her face twisted into a display of grief while something far uglier—ambition and barely contained excitement—burned deep in her eyes. Then he looked to Sirius, furious and frustrated, and finally to Harry, who was far calmer than one might have expected.

Dumbledore let out a quiet breath. “This is, I am afraid, a most regrettable situation.”

At his words, Borell and Bartholomew felt a sudden chill. For no clear reason, the same image rose in both their minds: a dragon, penned in a cage they had been prodding and provoking for years, at last straining against its bars. When those bars finally snapped, would the ones who had tormented it really escape the fury of its flames?

Dumbledore looked around at everyone present. He knew all too well that, under ordinary circumstances, there were only two options before him. Either he abandoned Harry and continued to pursue Voldemort, or he gave up that pursuit to protect Harry. Those were the choices laid out by the situation.

But Dumbledore did not want to abandon Harry.

Nor was he willing to let Voldemort go unchallenged.

So he chose an obtuse angle.

A third option.

Noble rank.

Universal admiration.

Did those things matter to Albus Dumbledore?

Not in the slightest.

If he could end the problem of Voldemort once and for all, he would gladly stake his life and his reputation on it. If he was willing to throw even those into the fire, what was left that could truly bind him?

Nothing at all.

He lowered his head to look at Harry. “Harry,” he asked gently, “would you be interested in taking a short leave of absence from school?”

Harry blinked, then seemed to understand. He nodded at once. “Of course. There is a toad at Hogwarts I am rather sick of. I have been thinking of taking a break for a while anyway.”

Most of those listening stared at him in confusion.

Umbridge, however, knew exactly which “toad” he meant. She knew more about what went on at Hogwarts than most; very little escaped her notice there. At Harry’s words, her face turned an ugly shade of mottled green and purple.

Dumbledore, on the other hand, smiled. He nodded, then brought his hands together in a sharp clap.

Overhead, Fawkes cried out, a high, clear note that echoed through the office. Flames burst from the phoenix’s body, spilling down to engulf Dumbledore, Sirius, and Harry. Under the astonished, angry, baffled stares of everyone present, Dumbledore vanished from the Ministry of Magic with Harry and Sirius in a whirl of phoenix fire.

As the last threads of flame faded, Borell and Bartholomew exchanged dark looks. They had thought their scheme would at least slow Dumbledore down. They had not expected him to break the board in this way.

Just as Dumbledore himself had once said, the moment Voldemort showed himself openly, everything would turn. Dumbledore would no longer be a senile old fool raving about a threat no one else could see. He would be a clear‑sighted sage who had been right all along. When a man like that stepped forward to say that there was more to Fudge’s death than met the eye… what would happen then?

If they wanted to avoid being devoured by their own plot, they would have to commit themselves completely, starting now. They would have to do everything in their power to help Voldemort seize control of the Ministry, then use the Ministry itself to hunt Dumbledore and the Order of the Phoenix, to take Hogwarts, to stamp out every potential ally that might one day move to Dumbledore’s side.

As for dissenting voices inside the Ministry, they would be silenced. Those who could be suppressed would be crushed; those who could be marginalised would be pushed aside. Those who could not be dealt with either way would have to die. Things had gone too far to pretend neutrality now. It was time to pick a side in the open.

As the pure‑blood faction at the Ministry stirred and bared their claws, scheming to claim the Ministry for themselves, another group of officials—those who favoured Dumbledore—followed a different path altogether. Each of them carried an invitation that had reached them the previous day by various secret routes. Guided by those letters, they came now to a hidden corner of Knockturn Alley.

The Black Hat Inn.

Two hooded figures, one tall and broad‑shouldered, the other shorter and slighter, pushed open the inn’s door. The black‑robed patrons inside barely glanced at them, going on with their drinks and low, muttered conversations. The taller figure, a burly man, leaned toward the woman beside him and murmured, “Amelia, at least half the people in here are on wanted posters in the Auror Office. It seems our Mr Sean Bulstrode is not quite as innocent and clean as we imagined.”

“Sometimes,” Amelia Bones replied calmly, “you have to pretend not to see things. Only then can I trust you with the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, Scrimgeour.”

“I will do my best,” Rufus Scrimgeour said dryly.

As they spoke, Marlow—currently Polyjuiced into the form of a witch in her thirties or forties, still strikingly attractive—walked over to them. She dipped into a graceful curtsey, her figure enough to force both Scrimgeour and Amelia into a brief, speechless pause.

“Please, come with me,” she said.

Under Marlow’s guidance, Scrimgeour and Amelia crossed to the back of the Black Hat Inn and took a narrow staircase up to the second floor, where a concealed chamber lay hidden.

Only once the door had closed behind them did they push back their hoods.

Inside, Griselda Marchbanks, Ogden, Dorian, and several others were already seated, nodding a brief greeting. Scrimgeour and Amelia returned it, then turned their eyes to the young wizard in the central seat.

Sean Bulstrode.

Scrimgeour did not even wait to sit before speaking. “Sean, when we worked together before, you never mentioned that you had this much power in Knockturn Alley.”

“Mr Scrimgeour,” Sean said mildly, “everyone has their secrets, do they not? As an apology, I will help you avoid one particular future—one in which you certainly die. Will that do as a gesture of sincerity?”

“Future?” Scrimgeour’s expression hardened. He looked at Sean, then glanced at Marchbanks and the others. None of them showed the slightest trace of doubt or surprise. That alone was enough to make him half believe. “You know a Seer powerful enough to predict such things?”

“This Seer,” Sean said, “is both far away and right in front of you. It is me.”

This time, real surprise showed on Scrimgeour’s face. He looked Sean up and down, clearly sceptical. “You are claiming to be a Seer? And how do you propose to prove that?”

“How does one prove such a thing?” Sean replied. “Perhaps by describing Madam Amelia’s unavoidable death. Would that suffice?”

Compared to Scrimgeour, Amelia did not so much as twitch at the mention of her death. There was no shock, no panic, no anger. She sat down calmly, folded her hands on the table, and nodded.

“If you have truly foretold the manner of my death,” she said, “then I will accept that you can see the future.”