Cornelius Fudge liked to think of himself as an open-minded man—not cruel, not unjust. Deep down, he craved a world that was orderly, manageable, civil. He preferred hearing news of progress and good deeds—anything that wouldn't disrupt the comfortable illusion of peace.
But tonight, everything changed. Standing in Dumbledore's office with an ashen face, Fudge felt the peaceful world he knew slipping through his fingers after what he'd just been told.
"This is absurd—utterly absurd! How could you let this happen, Dumbledore! How could you let this happen under your very nose?!" Fudge slammed his fists onto the headmaster's desk. The sound echoed through the circular room like a cannon shot.
Even as he spoke, his words rang hollow. His eyes flicked—unwillingly—toward the man in question, slumped and bound tightly to a chair across the room.
Barty Crouch Jr. looked like something pulled from a fever dream: gaunt, hollow-eyed, face smeared with grime, hair falling into his face in limp tangles. The remnants of his disguise—tattered Auror robes several sizes too large—clung to his frame like a sick joke. There was an ugly wound on his right arm, half-bandaged, half-ignored, and Fudge couldn't help but wonder: How had this happened under his nose?
Dumbledore met the Minister's gaze calmly. "t happened, Cornelius, because a man driven by madness and cruelty was allowed to slip through the cracks of our vigilance—yours, mine, the Ministry's. He did not walk through the front gates in daylight. He crept in through the darkness that we refused to acknowledge still lingered."
He gestured lightly toward the slumped figure of Barty Crouch Jr.
"This deception was not merely cleverness, but devotion—to Voldemort. You recall him, I trust? The one whose name you still dare not speak?"
Fudge flinched, but Dumbledore pressed on, his tone still maddeningly even.
Fudge took a deep breath, scanning the room and noting its other occupants. Bagman stood awkwardly near the fireplace, shifting from foot to foot. Moments earlier, he'd tried to ease the room's suffocating tension with a chuckle.
"Well, suppose we'll need a real Mad-Eye now, eh?" he'd said.
The silence that followed had been painful. Crouch Sr. had turned to him with a look sharp enough to cut bone."
"Shut up, Bagman," he had said, with such venom that even Dumbledore had raised a brow.
Now, Bagman had gone pale. He looked ten pounds lighter and ten years older, his usual jovial swagger nowhere in sight. Fudge didn't blame him—he felt much the same. But there was no time for sympathy.
His eyes settled on Crouch Sr., who sat near the hearth like a man carved from marble—silent, unblinking, and deathly pale. Freshly freed from the Imperius Curse after Merlin knows how long, and now at the center of a scandal involving the swapping of his son with his dying wife, Crouch hadn't spoken a word since his son had been dragged in. Fudge wasn't sure whether he pitied the man or feared what he might say. If the full truth emerged—that Crouch had hidden his son from Azkaban and kept him enslaved under the Imperius Curse—it could shatter not just his reputation, but the already fragile trust the public had in the Ministry itself.
The scandal would be incalculable.
Snape, who had administered the Veritaserum, stood silently to the side, arms folded, his eyes glinting with something unreadable. Fudge had never liked the man. Something about him—the cold demeanor, the way he looked at people as if measuring them for lies—made Fudge uneasy.
And yet, even more unsettling was the quiet young man sitting right beside him—Vincent Wong. If not for his own insistence on being here, backed by Dumbledore, Fudge would have had him removed from the room.
Fudge remembered meeting the boy during the Sirius Black fiasco the year before. Dumbledore had vouched for him then, and once again, the boy had inserted himself into matters far beyond his station. Fudge couldn't understand what the headmaster saw in him—looking at the boy with sleep-deprived eyes and a vacant stare that spoke of exhaustion more than brilliance. And yet... he had been the one to expose the imposter. He had noticed what no one else had.
Fudge took another deep breath. First the incident involving Sirius Black, then the security at the Quidditch Cup, and now this? The Ministry is already losing the trust of its people. He already had to work overtime salvaging what's left of their reputation, and now that he finally had a semblance of control this happens?
Dumbledore placed his hands gently onto the desk. "Cornelius, it is time for you to accept the truth you've so willingly ignored. Voldemort is alive, and he's planning his return."
The name hit Fudge like a cold wind. He flinched—barely—but it was enough. For a fleeting moment, the illusion of control cracked.
"You don't know that." he said, but even to his own ears, it sounded like a plea.
Dumbledore doesn't answer, there no need to, after all, Fudge had heard Barty's confession clear with his own ears.
Just minutes earlier, Barty Crouch Jr. had spilled everything under Veritaserum—his voice calm, even eerily proud as he described how he had broken free of the Imperius Curse, how he'd stolen Moody's identity, how he had fed Harry Potter's name to the Goblet and planned to deliver him to Voldemort before the final task.
And now, the man sat slumped in his chair, bound by conjured chains, eyes glazed with the aftermath of magical compulsion. There was no denying the truth. No room for interpretation. Just the cold, pitiless facts.
"I heard him, but it's madness, it has to be," Fudge's tired voice echoed throughout the room, fracturing under the stress he was currently feeling.
Dumbledore gently placed a hand on the man's shoulder. "Madness... yes, it is madness. But it is also the truth.
Fudge refused to look up. "You-Know-Who is alive, plotting. And we're only now learning about this from some lunatic who should've died in Azkaban. Albus...this scandal...the press will tear us apart."
"They may, but better them then Voldemort," said Dumbledore.
Fudge flinched and shook of Dumbledore's hand. "Don't say his name. Do you know what this means? This isn't just a resurrection of some old threat. This is institutional failure. This is a fugitive Death Eater impersonating one of our own. At Hogwarts. At the Triwizard Tournament. If this becomes public—if the other Ministries find out—we'll have an international crisis on our hands!"
"I've got foreign delegations breathing down my neck, wondering if we can even finish the blasted Triwizard Tournament without blowing something up. And now you expect me to go public with the return of You-Know-Who? No, Albus. Not yet. Not until I have something the public can survive hearing."
Dumbledore folded his arms. "What do you propose we do then?"
Fudge, again, took another deep breath, as if to regain some clarity. After a moment of collecting some semblance of control over his thoughts, the man finally answered.
"The Tournament goes on," Fudge says, earning a look of surprise from those present. ""If we cancel it now, we signal weakness. We send the foreign Ministries home in a panic. And we confirm—without even meaning to—that something terrible has happened. Rumors will spread regardless. This way... we keep some control."
Dumbledore furrowed his brow. "You mean, we pretend nothing has happened?"
"For now—until the final trial," Fudge said, casting a glance around the room, "we proceed with the Tournament. I'll quietly initiate an internal inquiry and keep the Crouch situation contained within the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. The Ministry will not take public action based on the ravings of a madman—unless more concrete evidence of You-Know-Who's return emerges before the final task. Not before then. Not while the world is watching."
Fudge looked with desperation at Dumbledore. "Please, Albus. I'm not asking this as Conelius, but as the Minister of Magic. This is all I can promise."
Dumbledore stared hard into Fudge's eyes, a short moment that felt like an eternity. Then he spoke, his voice clear as day. "You do what you must, Conelius. But know this, while I will not stand in your way, I won't stand idle."
Fudge stood in place for a moment longer, shoulders sagging as if the weight of the truth—and the lies he was about to tell—had finally settled in.
"I'll do what I can," he murmured. "For whatever good it will do."
He turned and made his way to the fireplace, pausing to toss something into the flames. The fire flared green as he turned back around.
"I'll send someone to collect the prisoner. Barty, old friend,"—he glanced toward Crouch Sr., whose face had not changed—"you'll have to come with me as well. Bagman, I'll need you as well. Looks like we'll be needing another judge."
Crouch Sr. stood slowly, stiffly, like a man moving through fog. He gave no reply, only a nod so small it might've been imagined. Bagman didn't seem to have any energy to respond as all he did was nod in acknowledgement.
Before stepping into the green flames, Fudge turned back once more and looked directly at Vincent.
"Vincent, my boy," Fudge said, weary. "You did... more than I expected. But for your sake, keep your head down. This stays out of the Prophet—your name, your role. All of it."
His eyes flicked to Dumbledore, half-challenging, half-pleading. "We don't need another boy being turned into a symbol."
Vincent was slightly taken aback at the sudden address, but he nodded in understanding.
Fudge adjusted his cloak, stepped into the fireplace, and vanished in a rush of emerald flame. Crouch Sr. followed a few seconds later. Bagman, the last to leave, gave them all a wave before he too vanished.
As the silence settled in their wake, the tension remained, as heavy as ever.
Dumbledore turned to Snape. "Ensure Barty Crouch Jr. is kept under guard until the Aurors arrive. No visitors. No contact."
Snape nodded and swept toward the prisoner with silent purpose.
Vincent looked over at Dumbledore. "So, we're just keeping silent about this?"
Dumbledore's expression was unreadable. "For now. Cornelius is many things, but one thing is certain: he believes he's acting in the Ministry's best interest. And he's right—news like this would destroy any credibility the Ministry still has. Mass panic would help no one."
"But we can't be silent about this forever, right?"
Dumbledore sighed. "No, no we cannot. There will come a time where people must know the truth, to prepare for it, to fight it. But that time isn't now."
"You can't stop what's coming."
The voice came from across the room. Barty Crouch's eyes were suddenly sharp again, clear and fixed on them. He ignored Snape's wand pressed against his throat.
"What can't we stop?" Dumbledore asked politely.
Barty glared at Snape, who stared back motionlessly. "He's got a plan. One in case I were to fail."
It wasn't the first time he'd said this. But every time they pressed him further, he'd say the same thing:
"He didn't tell me," Barty said, voice calm. "Just in case this happened. But mark my words... he will have Harry Potter. One way or another."
Then he began to laugh. Softly at first. Then louder. Manic. Detached.
Dumbledore sighed, looking tired, before turning to Vincent. "Go, get some rest. You did something amazing today, Vincent."
Vincent nodded tiredly as he turned his gaze away from the Barty as he got up. "What time is it?"
"Five in the morning." Snape's voice elected a groan from Vincent who tiredly made his way to the door.
"Hey kid."
Vincent's hand paused at the handle. He turned.
Barty was watching him. Something about his gaze had changed.
"Gepet Stein," Barty said.
Both Snape and Dumbledore watched Vincent's reaction closely. The name hit like a slap. His tired expression shifted—his golden eyes gleamed with lethal intent. The chill that settled over the room was instant.
Barty actually flinched. It was the same look he saw when he dug through the boy's mind. The exact same expression was on that very kid he saw, surrounded by all those bodies.
He gave a nervous chuckle. "So, all those bodies were his handy work, eh? Never been into one of his workshops, dude was far too creepy even for me. Say what became of him?"
Vincent stared a moment longer, then turned away.
"Someone killed him."
As the door closed behind him, Barty let out a shaky laugh.
"That's one hell of a monster you made Gepet, you remember him and his brother, right Snape? You damned traitor!"
"You shut your mouth," Snape hissed, pressing his wand deeper. "Or I'll do it for you."
Barty's laughter echoed through the room as Dumbledore stared at the closed door, a shadow of sorrow passing over his face.
In the grand scheme of things, every choice Vincent had made during his time at Hogwarts—until now—was in fact, inconsequential. The future's path may have wavered in detail, twisted in places, but it was always destined to end in the same place.
At least, that had been true... until tonight.
Vincent Wong had no idea what his actions this evening had set in motion—no understanding of the consequences they would unleash, the tears they would demand, or the trail of death they would soon leave behind. The future, once thought stable, had now begun to veer onto an entirely different course, far from its supposed destination.
Beings of great power sensed the shift, yet none could pinpoint its cause.
All except one.
For better or worse—only time would tell.
"Forgive me, Vincent—for placing a burden no one your age should have to bear."
...
Elsewhere, a certain man's eyes snapped open, as if waking from a long, deep slumber. His ruby-red gaze fixed on something far beyond the throne room—something unseen by any other.
"So, little Albus' gamble has paid off," he murmured. "How will this story end now?"
First a smile crept up onto his features, then came a chuckle, and then laughter.
Laughter that rolled through the empty chamber, echoing and lingering. The very air seemed to tremble, and storms raged beyond the walls.
A dark omen—an echo of what was yet to come.
...