"Uh… Mrs Weasley, isn't this supposed to be about Sirius Black?"
Above the grand hall of the Wizengamot, inside one of the guest auditoriums, Harry sat with his head tilted, watching the inexplicable turn of events unfold. Questions buzzed in his head faster than he could sort them, and even his Gryffindor brain could tell this had nothing to do with Sirius Black, or the trial they had all come to witness.
"I'm as confused as you are, dear," Molly admitted, her brow furrowing. It wasn't that she disliked what was happening—no, it was just… everything was happening so suddenly, out of nowhere.
"How many hands can you count, dear?" she asked, leaning forward.
It wasn't just them. The same bewildered current ran through the entire gallery. This was supposed to be the trial of a notorious fugitive—yet before anyone realized what was happening, it had swerved into a vote of no confidence against the very head of their government.
Most magical communities across the globe had some form of democracy, more or less. Even so, coups were hardly a familiar concept in the wizarding world.
Then again, as the saying went, it was only a coup if it failed. And the architects behind everything that was happening had no plans on failing.
Reporters' quills scratched furiously, never pausing, while the enchanted broadcast carried every word and gesture into homes, restaurants, and pubs across the country. Families, workers, even drunks leaning on counters were glued to the floating screens, holding their breath as hands began to rise in the chamber.
"Six… no, nine…" Harry muttered, eyes tracking each motion from below.
"That's not even close," Molly's lips pressed tight.
"Then what in Merlin's name gave Barty the confidence this would work?" another witch muttered from the row beside them—only to break off mid-sentence when yet another hand shot up, followed by a wave of others.
Down on the floor, when Dumbledore first called the tally, only a small cluster of councilors had lifted their hands—mostly the ones long at odds with Cornelius Fudge.
The Minister allowed himself a smug little smile at the sight. Opposition was expected, after all—and it appeared in such pitiful numbers. He could already picture himself rubbing it in Crouch's face.
And then he froze.
His eyes widened as the next hand shot up—for it was none other than Lord Jameson Greengrass, leader of a whole large faction within the Assembly.
His blood ran cold as a storm of doubts crashed through his head. It was Jameson who urged me to hold a public hearing… wasn't it? So why?
No…
He realized, as a thought struck him. It was me—I was the one who went out of my way to arrange this public hearing, all because Lord Greengrass dangled the so-called chance to clear my muddy image.
Cold sweat trickled down his temples as hand after hand followed Greengrass's lead. Ten… fourteen… twenty… The so-called neutral faction—the councilors who usually kept to the sidelines—were now in motion, and each hand that rose struck him like a hammer blow to the chest, driving home the terrifying realization that this ridiculous farce might actually succeed.
Had he been played from the very start?
He was already on his feet, hands braced against the table, eyes bulging as he counted the hands raised in the air. There were Fifty-nine seats in total, including his own and the two High Councilors, and the count had already reached twenty-seven.
Just three more votes… His mouth went dry at how close he was to losing everything. Mechanically, he turned to Crouch and saw him furrowing his brow, seemingly not satisfied.
Yes… he thought, the number had to reach thirty. Not twenty-seven, not twenty-eight, not even twenty-nine. From the looks of it, no more hands were going up. Even Dumbledore and Caesar seemed content to sit this one out. Thank Merlin.
Just as a smug smile began to curl at the corner of his lips again, a fresh ripple of gasps from the gallery above made him snap his head upward, then back down—but no one else had raised their hands.
Which meant…
From the corner of his eye, he caught movement. Dumbledore and Caesar—who, just moments ago, he had thought would sit this one out—had now raised their hands.
No… no… no… no… no.
"What… what is the meaning of this?" he spat, the words practically strangling their way out of him.
More gasps erupted from the gallery, and he instinctively whipped his head around once again. His eyes nearly bulged from their sockets as the full scope of what was happening slammed into him.
His legs went numb, and he slumped down, opening and closing his mouth like a fish, desperate to speak but utterly unable to find words.
In front of him was a sea of hands, easily over two-thirds of the entire assembly. Even some of his own sponsors—pureblood fanatics who had maintained a good relationship with him—had raised their hands, declaring their stance that they no longer supported him.
"How… how could this be happening?"
"This is a conspiracy. It has to be!" Fudge bellowed, his voice cracking. "I will not accept this! I have been tricked!"
He jabbed a finger toward Bartemius Crouch, who now wore a faint, almost smug smile, then frantically swung his hand to the sea of raised councilors, and finally toward Dumbledore and Maverick beside him.
"You're all in on this! I—this is a conspiracy, I tell you! I will not accept this!"
His frantic wailing echoed off the chamber walls, mingling with the relentless clicks of cameras from the gallery above.
"Cornelius… accept the facts—" Dumbledore sought to make the maddening minister see reason, to pour some sense into him, but he was cut off.
"NO! I WILL NOT!" Fudge roared, spinning to face the hall. "I WILL NOT... ACCEPT... THIS!"
Maverick shook his head, watching the idiot lose control. The fat man's shouting carried no weight now—the outcome was already sealed, and besides, he was far too close, and his sheer volume was grating.
Seconds crawled by, and Fudge's frantic wailing filled the chamber, but time spared no one. At last, the period allotted for the vote came to an end. Cornelius Fudge, the Minister of Magic, now sat slumped, eyes wide and hollow, like a desperate child who had just lost his most treasured toy. At least—for now—he had finally shut up.
Meanwhile, Dumbledore was on his feet, and the buzz in the hall fell into a tense, expectant silence. Before the hundreds gathered in the chamber—and the countless others watching live across the country—the old wizard lifted the ceremonial hammer with deliberate care and brought it down three times. Each resounding strike echoed through the hall, commanding attention and reverence.
"Esteemed councilors," Dumbledore's voice rang out, measured and solemn, "having tallied the votes in accordance with Article Nine, Clause Four of the Charter, the assembly has rendered its decision. By the super majority of the council, Cornelius Oswald Fudge is hereby removed from his position as Minister for Magic."
He turned slightly, signaling to the security Aurors to come forward. "Kindly escort the former Minister of Magic to a Healer," he said calmly, "It seems the burdens of office have taken too great a toll."
Although Cornelius Fudge had been escorted from the Wizengamot chamber, it did not mean he was barred from returning. He still held his seat as a councilor; only now, he would no longer gaze down from the highest chair upon the assembly.
Once Fudge had been escorted away, Dumbledore stood, letting his presence fill the chamber. Raising a hand, his eyes traveled slowly over the councilors and the spectators above until silence settled like a soft cloak over the room.
"Today marks a turning point in the history of this council," he said, his voice carrying clearly without force. "We have borne witness to an important moment, my esteemed councilors—yet more than that, we have affirmed a great truth... and that is no seat, no office, stands higher than the law itself. So let this serve as a reminder: power is not a prize to hoard, nor a shield to hide behind. It is a responsibility entrusted to us for the good of all, and none stand above it—not even a minister."
He inclined his head slightly, then turned his gaze back to Bartemius on the elevated seat just below him.
"With that, I yield the remainder of today's proceedings to Councilor Bartemius Crouch, Chief Adjudicator for this assembly, who will guide us forward in proper order."
What followed had still nothing to do with Sirius Black. When the post of Minister of Magic became vacant—whether by resignation, death, or a vote of no confidence—wizarding law in Britain required that the position be filled as soon as possible.
And yes, it was an appointment, not a direct election by the public in the same way a Muggle prime minister or president might be chosen.
Potential candidates were selected by the councilors themselves and presented to the Wizengamot, provided at least eighty percent of councilors were in attendance. Most often, candidates came either from within the ranks of the Wizengamot or from senior positions in the Ministry. And once the names were presented, the assembly would vote for their preferred choice.
There was no required percentage to win; simply, the candidate with the highest number of votes secures the position. And if a tie ever occurred, then the two highest-voted candidates would face a revote, with the winner finally appointed as Minister of Magic.
While the public did not vote directly, their opinion remained crucial—acting as a de facto check on the Wizengamot's power. A Minister needs public support to be effective, and without it, they risked being removed. In the original timeline also, Cornelius Fudge had eventually been forced out for precisely that reason: he lost the public's confidence with his handling of the Voldemort crisis.
Finally, there was no fixed term for an acting Minister. One could remain in office indefinitely, so long as they retained the confidence of both the Wizengamot and the public.
For Bartemius Crouch, the process of appointing a minister seemed entirely familiar. Without any delay, he opened the floor for councilors to present their candidates, and in under an hour, with no objections from any party, the names were laid out on the table.
One name, of course, was Lord Jameson Greengrass. Another came from the pure-blood fanatic faction. And the final name—much to Maverick's quiet amusement—was Dolores Umbridge, the Undersecretary to the former Minister of Magic.
From the start of the assembly—impeaching Fudge and selecting candidates for the next Minister—it had already been two hours. Yet, no one complained. From the guest auditoriums, the atmosphere remained lively, reporters busy capturing every detail, and attendees enthusiastically debating the potential outcome.
Next came the highlight of the day: Bartemius announcing the candidates for the next Minister of Magic. The hall buzzed when Lord Greengrass's name was called, with plenty of applause from the auditorium signaling obvious approval. The second candidate drew far less attention, and as for Umbridge… well, it seemed no one even bothered to care.
Finally, when the vote was tallied, Lord Greengrass emerged with the most votes in an overwhelming turnout, a clear supermajority—and, coincidentally or not, his total matched exactly the number of votes that had impeached Cornelius Fudge.
And thus, on that day—28th of December, 1993—a new Minister of Magic was appointed, taking the helm of the British magical government.
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