Besides the pure-blood families, the Ministry of Magic bore the brunt of the backlash.
English wizards flooded the Ministry with over five hundred letters a day—mostly complaints and furious demands for answers. All fingers pointed straight at Fudge.
This left the Minister in a state of utter panic. Only five hours had passed since the Daily Prophet hit the stands, and Fudge had already shattered several teacups in his office without so much as sipping from one.
Now, he slammed his fist on the desk. "Damn it all! How could this happen? You-Know-Who's really back! What's gotten into these pure-blood families? What intel did they get that let them clear the path for the Prophet so smoothly? Who's gunning for me? Why wasn't I warned?!"
Despair etched Fudge's face. He knew he was done for. If the pressure kept mounting, resignation was his only way out—just as he'd publicly sworn. He couldn't backpedal now. Worse, You-Know-Who's return threatened to drag the wizarding world into chaos once more. The thought of that terror made Fudge's blood run cold; he was genuinely, bone-deep afraid.
A knock echoed through the office, snapping him from his spiral. The door creaked open, and in waddled a squat woman in a garish pink cardigan, her toad-like face twisted in a simpering smile.
Dolores Umbridge—one of Fudge's innermost circle. The witch who'd dosed Cho Chang with Veritaserum, shattering Harry Potter's first crush. Fans loathed her above all others in the series, and for good reason: she embodied petty tyranny. She'd imposed her infamous high-pressure regime at Hogwarts, stifling creativity with iron-fisted rules and quills that carved her "discipline" into students' skin.
Fudge scowled. "Who let you barge in here? Have you no respect? I'm not out of office yet—who gave you the nerve to be so bold?"
A flicker of ice crossed Umbridge's bulging eyes, but she masked it with a syrupy smile. "Minister, forgive my interruption, but this can't wait. I must speak with you."
Fudge rubbed his temples. "Out with it, then."
Umbridge leaned in, her voice a conspiratorial whisper. "Doesn't the whole mess feel eerily familiar? The Prophet's scramble, the pure-bloods' swift moves... it echoes something recent. The last time families bypassed you to shield the paper was the Yaxley affair!"
Fudge's head jerked up. Umbridge's words struck like a hex, highlighting the anomalies. The pure-bloods had mobilized too fast—no leaks from the Prophet, no heads-up. Rita Skeeter, ever loyal to Fudge, hadn't breathed a word then, nor now.
The pattern clicked: someone pulling strings from the shadows.
Gritting his teeth, Fudge snarled, "Cavendish! It has to be the Cavendish family. I should've seen it coming. But I've no beef with Erwin—what's his game?!"
Umbridge nodded sagely. "The family's rise has been meteoric, Minister. I won't mince words: I've tracked Erwin since his talents first surfaced. Every move he's made—seemingly random—forms a deliberate web."
"I even ventured into the Muggle world for answers. You won't believe what I uncovered."
Fudge leaned forward, impatience sharpening his gaze. "Spit it out!"
Umbridge's eyes gleamed. "I spent days in London digging into the Cavendish legacy. They're legends there. A few years back, the city was a powder keg—gangs and rival families clawing for power. The Cavendishes were vulnerable; young Erwin inherited scraps from his parents, but at six, he was easy prey. No one took him seriously, and opportunists circled like vultures—even from within the family. Whispers say the Muggle royals eyed their holdings too."
Fudge's brows shot up. "The royals? Preposterous! If they'd stepped in, the Cavendishes would've been swept aside. The Crown has its own vast interests."
"I was skeptical too," Umbridge admitted, "but the records don't lie. Erwin seized control at six. Within a year, he'd crushed internal rivals and turned on London's underbelly. By seven, he'd dismantled every competing faction save his own. Ruthless doesn't cover it—efficient as a curse. Then the royals backed off; word is, they struck a deal, leaving the shadows to Cavendish rule. Locals say it plain: after dark, London answers to Erwin."
"From there, he consolidated. The family reined in their enforcers, started 'protection' rackets for Muggle shops and folk—modest fees for safety. Even the black-market trades fell under their thumb, cleaned up and taxed."
Fudge blinked, stunned by the revelations.
Umbridge pressed on. "When Erwin entered Hogwarts, he tapped a magical creatures supply—likely from the Forbidden Forest. He launched a Diagon Alley shop, undercutting prices to draw crowds. Potions masters flocked; low costs let rogue brewers experiment and profit. To them, Cavendish stock was a lifeline."
"And the Yaxleys? I've dissected that debacle. Isolated, each twist seems coincidence. Linked? It's Erwin's blueprint."
Fudge's voice dropped to a growl. "Meaning?"
Umbridge's tone turned grave. "Everything—the Prophet's coverage, the families' outrage, even the Yaxleys' downfall—stems from Erwin's orchestration. Current events? Just threads in his grand design."
...
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