"Minister, there are reports of a massive riot at Azkaban Prison under your direct jurisdiction—can you confirm whether these reports are true?"
"Minister Fudge, we're hearing that dozens of dangerous criminals have escaped in connection with this riot—does your department have a full list of those who have broken out?"
"Mr. Fudge, I'm Karl Caine, reporting for La Gazette de la Sorcière—can you tell us exactly how this horrifying escape came to happen under your watch?"
A middle-aged wizard with chestnut curls and a notebook clutched in one hand broke through Kingsley Shacklebolt's cordon with surprising force and managed to seize Fudge by the arm just as the Minister—his face a furious shade of grey tried desperately to push his way into the packed reception hall of the Ministry.
"No comment. Absolutely none."
Fudge whipped around and gave the French reporter a look that could strip flesh from bone, his eyes were blazing with fury and something that might have been panic.
"Oh, but Minister, Azkaban has always been guarded by the Dementors—they are your primary security measure, are they not?"
The reporter, completely undeterred by the Minister's ferocious glare, only raised his voice louder to be heard over the chaos.
"Does this mean the Dementors are no longer under the control of the British Ministry of Magic? Have they defected alongside the prisoners? The public has a right to know!"
"Utter nonsense! Complete fabrication!"
Fudge wrenched his sleeve free with a furious jerk that nearly tore the cloth.
His face was now approaching purple.
"Damn it all, I need to get out of here—Kingsley! Dawlish! Where on earth are you both? Clear these people out—they are not authorized to be in this building! This is a secure government facility!"
About half a minute later, after considerable struggle, Dawlish with one of his shoes lost somewhere in the crush, his robes disheveled crawled out from between a reporter's legs and surfaced at Fudge's side like a drowning man reaching air.
"That may be rather difficult, Minister," Dawlish panted, his face was flushed. "It seems roughly half the magical press corps of Europe has united and descended on us here. We—"
"Half the magical press of Europe?!" Fudge's voice cracked with disbelief.
Fudge shoved a reporter bodily out of his path, nearly sending the man sprawling.
"Yes, Minister!" Dawlish pressed his own body into service as a battering ram, carving a path forward through the sea of bodies. "The other half is either still on their way from their respective countries or stuck outside trying to get in! The Floo Network is completely overwhelmed!"
"It's only been half a day since the breakout!" Fudge's voice was nearly a shriek. "How did they—"
Under protective cover from several grim-faced Aurors forming a human shield around him, the Minister—his jacket now half torn off him, his tie awry, looking nothing like the 'dignified' leader he'd been that morning finally forced his way into the lift lobby through sheer desperation.
But the crowd surged after him like a tide, countless reporters were thrusting their hands and quills in the air and shouting over one another:
"Say something, Minister!"
"When will the Ministry bring these criminals to justice?"
"Is it true Bellatrix Lestrange was among the escapees?"
BANG.
A single explosion of sound cracked through the roaring hall, freezing every voice mid-shout. The reverberations rang off marble walls.
"Regarding the Azkaban breakout, the British Ministry of Magic will be holding a formal press conference shortly," Kingsley Shacklebolt roared, his wand pressed to his own throat to magically amplify his voice across the entire atrium.
"Please do not give credence to unconfirmed rumors—the Ministry's official statement will be released in due course through proper channels. Thank you for your patience."
The words bought a fragile, momentary calm.
The reporters stopped shoving, though the muttering continued.
"Well handled, Kingsley," Fudge gasped with genuine relief.
Fudge mopped his sweat-drenched brow with his tie, seizing gratefully on the brief breathing room Kingsley had won him, and bolted into the lift with Dawlish practically on his heels. The golden grilles clanged shut behind them.
BANG.
The office door flew open violently under Fudge's boot. He reached instinctively for his head to remove his bowler hat and realized with a jolt of dismay that it had vanished somewhere in the melee below, lost in the chaos.
He could only rake his fingers furiously through his hair, standing before the coat rack and gasping for breath like he'd run a marathon.
"Minister—oh—" Dawlish began.
Dawlish, moving to shut the office door behind them, was overtaken when several Ministry employees pushed their way inside, their faces looked urgent.
"Oi—Ackerley! What do you think you're doing, marching in here like that without an appointment!" Dawlish snapped, trying to regain some semblance of control.
The employees ignored him completely, making straight for Fudge, who stood behind his massive desk with thunderous brows and white knuckles gripping the chair.
"What is it, Ackerley?" Fudge's voice was dangerous. "This had better be important."
"Minister—" The man called Ackerley—Head of the Department of International Magical Cooperation was visibly out of breath, his face was pale.
"Just twenty minutes ago, the International Confederation of Wizards sent us a formal letter of censure through official channels. They are holding us—holding Britain responsible for, due to our negligence they say, placing the entire wizarding world of Europe under grave threat."
"Grave threat?!" Fudge leapt to his feet, his chair scraping back. "Nothing has even happened yet! The prisoners only just escaped!"
"Regardless of timing, Minister—" Ackerley's expression was that of a man watching the gallows being built for his own execution.
"The Confederation has given us one week to provide a full explanation and to present a concrete, actionable plan for recapturing the fugitives. They're demanding accountability."
"Oh, that is rich. That is absolutely rich." Fudge's eyes bulged, his fury was curdling into a laugh that was more like a snarl.
"Since when does the International Confederation presume to dictate terms to the British Ministry of Magic? We are a sovereign magical nation! ...Oh, I can see it now, this is Dumbledore's doing. And Watson's. And Dreghorn's—the whole Scottish delegation.
All three of them up at Hogwarts watching that absurd tournament while they pull the strings behind the scenes."
"It isn't only the Confederation making demands, Minister—" The young man standing nervously behind Ackerley shifted, rattling a thick sheaf of parchment he carried.
"The German Ministry, the French Ministry, the Italian Ministry, the Norwegian Ministry—even the Albanian Wizarding Self-Defense Organization, and they barely have ten members—they've all sent formal queries requesting immediate details of the breakout.
And there are non-official bodies as well—the International Dark Force Defense League, the Board of Assessors for the Order of Merlin, the European Council of Magical Law..."
"I have nothing to say to any of them! Nothing!"
Fudge went the color of a bruised plum, looking very close to bringing up blood. His hands trembled.
The delegation from International Magical Cooperation exchanged helpless glances, uncertain whether to stay or flee.
"But Minister—" Ackerley held Fudge's terrible gaze and pressed on bravely. "We must respond to the wizarding world. Mustn't we?"
Fudge's chest swelled as though he were about to roar at full volume, but he held it in with effort, letting the fury drain away into a long, resentful silence. Then he slid his eyes toward Dawlish with an unspoken command.
"All right, Ackerley." Dawlish, for once, had his wits about him and recognized his cue.
He stepped forward smoothly and plucked the stack of foreign queries from the delegation's hands, assuming an air of authority he didn't quite possess.
"The Minister needs time to think through the current situation calmly and determine the next appropriate steps. The Ministry will issue a comprehensive response in due course."
"Very well." Ackerley looked deeply unconvinced but recognized dismissal when he heard it. "I understand this is a terrible position to be in, Minister. But we urgently need a proper account—something that will soothe public anger and calm the understandable anxiety of the international wizarding community. The pressure is immense."
CLICK.
The moment the door shut softly behind them with a gentle click, Fudge exploded.
"Who the hell is responsible for this disaster?!"
Dawlish maintained a deeply uncomfortable silence, not meeting the Minister's eyes.
In reality, it didn't require much careful thought to determine who had orchestrated the breakout—one need only look at which specific prisoners had escaped.
But that was not something Dawlish was willing to say aloud. Because acknowledging it would mean admitting that the whole chain of events had been engineered by Death Eaters loyal to You-Know-Who.
And that would make the Ministry, or more specifically the Minister himself, a complete and utter laughingstock given certain public positions they had staked out about the Dark Lord's status.
"In half a day!" Fudge raged on, pacing behind his desk like a caged animal. "Even the semi-official organizations in Albania already know about it! Albania!?"
"Well, you know how scandal travels, Minister—" Dawlish began, and then caught the Minister's basilisk-like glare and changed course hastily.
"What I mean is—I think Madam Umbridge's suggestion has real merit. The most important thing right now is to redirect public attention away from our failures…. Well…. create a different narrative.
And naturally, we must pursue the fugitives—though there's no great rush there. You know how quickly the public forgets when given something else to focus on."
Fudge fell silent. He stood before his desk, breathing quietly but heavily, his mind was clearly racing.
"Surely, Minister—you won't step back from this. Not now when we're so close."
"Step back? Of course not, Dawlish." Fudge's voice was cold now. "Even if it drives the wedge between us and those two wizards at Hogwarts to the point of no return—well, frankly, it's their fault anyway. All of this."
Fudge's eyes burned with righteous conviction.
"Yes. That's exactly right—their fault. Dumbledore spreading baseless hysteria about You-Know-Who's return, undermining public confidence in the government. Watson openly drilling a private army on Hogwarts grounds. The timing... couldn't be more perfect. Dawlish!"
Dawlish flinched at the sudden bark of his name. The Minister's gaze swung toward him like something predatory, and a cold sweat bloomed along his spine despite the warm office.
"Sir!" Dawlish snapped to attention.
"Regarding the matter of Harry Potter—" The malice in Fudge's eyes was unmistakable now. "I trust we have a complete chain of evidence now? Everything we need?"
"You have my word, Minister." A flush of eager anticipation spread across Dawlish's face.
"Harry Potter has nowhere left to run."
'Nowhere left to run.'
Outside the office door, Kingsley who had finally managed to calm the rioting reporters and restore some semblance of order to the atrium, and was now raising his hand to knock and report back to the Minister—froze where he stood.
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