. February 13th, 8:00 AM.
Mortos arrived at the Ministry of Magic an hour early.
Apparition was prohibited in his office, so he entered through a telephone booth.
Everyone who saw him stopped and stared—after yesterday's earthquake, everyone in the Ministry was no longer unaware of his presence.
The pure-blood wizards, meanwhile, had a new understanding of the name Caliban Mortos.
Amelia seemed isolated for fear of suspicion. Damon saw her from a distance, standing at the edge of the crowd, nodding quietly.
He was led by an unfamiliar Ministry official, neither tall nor fat, with a serious expression. He confirmed Damon's identity and said, "Please follow me." He remained silent throughout the entire process, leading him to a narrow, enclosed room. Cake and tea lay on the table, along with some books to pass the time.
"The trial hasn't started yet. Please wait here for half an hour. I'll call you then."
"Thank you."
"You're welcome." The Ministry official seemed surprised. After a pause, he said, "I think you did the right thing."
With that, he solemnly left, as if nothing had happened.
Damon turned his head to look at the man, chuckled softly, and sat calmly in the room. He picked up a piece of cake with a fork and casually read a book.
He thought the next half hour would be a quiet time, but it turned out not to be.
"Mortos?"
A second voice suddenly echoed in the room, a man's voice.
Damon didn't respond.
"Mortos?"
There was a hint of doubt in the voice.
"I'm not deaf yet. Let's get straight to the point."
Damon placed the tea on the small table and leaned back in the deformed chair—he probably wasn't in the mood to read anymore.
"You're in big trouble this time."
The man's voice was magnetic and low, as if Damon had pierced the sky.
"Fudge won't let you go. He's already agreed with his team to keep you in Azkaban for at least ten years."
"So?" Damon raised his brow, pondering what to do next—a real fight with the Ministry of Magic would be foolish. Well, it would depend on his mood.
Honestly, after dealing with so many dangerous incidents, he'd grown a little tired of being an Auror—compared to facing those Dark wizards every day, the Hogwarts students were much more endearing.
He personally wasn't keen on conquering the Ministry of Magic through force—that would be cumbersome, and his position would be delicate. And
the opinions of those around him would be even more complicated.
In a sense, Dumbledore was right.
No one could live without the community, and Damon had no desire to disrupt the current ecosystem of the wizarding world—which he certainly would have done if he'd taken force.
"We can help you, if you just nod."
The man's voice was alluring, as if a nod from Damon would instantly free him from this impending crisis.
"What are the conditions?"
"Join us."
"Who are you?"
"We are omnipresent, a collective of all interests. Your power is too great, and we hope you will use it with caution."
"Does this mean I should not take action in the future, or do you mean I should be at your disposal?"
"Both. We fully respect your wishes."
"That's great. I'm not going to choose either."
Damon rested his feet on the wooden table, eyes closed.
"That's all, get out."
"I regret we couldn't reach a consensus. If you change your mind later, just give us a signal. It's never too late, before you're locked up in Azkaban."
The man didn't argue, and vanished.
Damon opened his eyes slightly, a fluorescent light flashing in them—under the microscope, he saw only a mass of magical energy dissipating.
"You don't even dare to show your face, yet you act so sincere. Isn't that ridiculous?"
He closed his eyes, rocking gently in the rocking chair.
8:45
"Knock knock."
There was a knock on the door, polite as if knocking on someone else's door—if you ignored the fact that Damon was awaiting trial.
"Mr. Mortos, time's up."
"Understood."
The locked door finally opened, revealing the same unfamiliar official.
Criminals were usually tried in the second basement, but this time, it seemed the location had changed.
Damon was led deep underground. When the elevator doors opened, there was only a corridor before him.
This corridor was completely different from the ones above. The walls were bare, with no doors or windows, save for a simple black door at the end. And
if that weren't enough, there was a gap midway through the passage, leading to a staircase—the elevator couldn't reach the depths below.
The light grew dimmer, gradually reaching a point where it was impossible to see anything with the naked eye.
"We've arrived at Courtroom Nine."
Rough stone walls framed a heavy wooden door with an iron bolt and keyhole. As soon as Damon entered, the door slammed shut with a clang of locking. Inside
, the darkness was so dim that even those around him couldn't see clearly. What came into view was a long table, large enough to accommodate almost a person. At the end sat a stern-looking, middle-aged man. It was Fudge.
His face, usually warm and welcoming when facing Damon, was now frighteningly serious as he faced Mortus.
Nearest Daemon stood a chair, the only iron one. Its arms were laced with chains—clearly, used to restrain prisoners.
"Quite punctual," a cold male voice echoed through the courtroom.
"Please take a seat, in the seat you see." It was the same male voice, but gentle. "
I came early to wait. If you're late, it's your fault." Daemon smiled as he sat on the Iron Throne
, watching as the chains activated, securing his hands securely. As for his wand, it had been temporarily confiscated from him from the outset.
Noticing Mortos's cooperation, many in the darkness brightened their expressions. They breathed a sigh of relief, yet also a touch of surprise—Mortos was actually so cooperative?
Was he a toothless lion?
Judging from his usual demeanor, he didn't seem like that.
Everyone stared at the renowned assassin, and he stared back at them.
There were about fifty people, wearing purple robes with an exquisite silver "w" embroidered on the left chest. As he spontaneously 'locked' himself, those people finally pulled their hands out of the robes and placed them on the table. There should be people standing outside, but they just didn't say anything - are they here to watch the trial? Or are they like a jury? Damon thought with interest.
"Be serious! Mortos! This is a court!"
Fudge at the end of the long table suddenly warned.
Damon ignored him.
Fudge thought that this was his majesty taking effect, and he looked around with a little pride - "Very good," Fudge said, "the defendant is finally here, let's get started."
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(End of this chapter)