"How long will this take?" Fudge asked.
"At least a few more years," Harry shook his head. "This sort of thing can't be rushed. Power should be wielded by those with mature judgment. Surely, Minister, you wouldn't want someone hastily mastering shamanic powers and then unleashing vengeance on society, would you?"
Fudge fell silent.
"Don't worry. For the next few years, at least, the Ministry won't lack capable hands to deal with cases involving shaman priests."
"But—" Fudge opened his mouth but stopped short of speaking.
His real concern wasn't the British wizarding world. It was that he might not stay in office long enough to see the day when shaman priests became commonplace.
"Let's talk about Sirius," Fudge said, his face sour. "You've made the Ministry look foolish, Professor Potter. Do you realize what Sirius Black's acquittal means?"
"It means the Ministry is correcting its mistake. It means justice is being served," Harry said with a mocking edge. "You're missing the point, Minister. Sirius's release and the clearing of his name were inevitable. This isn't about the Ministry's will."
"What's that supposed to mean?" Fudge snapped, irritated. "In your eyes, does your will override the Ministry? Override the entire wizarding society?"
"No need to elevate yourself so high, Minister," Harry replied calmly. "You and I both know the Ministry doesn't represent all wizards. Wizards aren't like Muggles—we're far too scattered. Muggles can't survive without their communities, but wizards can."
"Like savages?" Fudge's expression darkened, but he sneered.
"Like before the Ministry existed," Harry said, undeterred by the jab. "Compared to wizarding history, the Ministry's just a fledgling organization, barely two hundred years old, isn't it?"
"Established for the Statute of Secrecy," Harry continued, "to unify wizards and hide them from Muggle eyes, to better protect ourselves—"
"The Statute exists to protect Muggles!" Fudge growled. "Do you even know what you're saying, Professor Potter?"
"Do I?" Harry countered. "In nature, I've only heard of prey hiding to avoid being found, not predators. Hunters might conceal themselves, but only to strike more effectively. Outside of the hunt, they never shy away from showing their presence."
"Ha! A Muggle supremacist?" Fudge laughed, slamming his hand on the desk. "Does Dumbledore know you think like this?"
"Is it so hard to face reality?" Harry tilted his head. "Aren't wizards living in hiding from Muggle eyes? If you look at history, didn't the four founders build Hogwarts to protect young witches and wizards from persecution by the Muggle church?"
"Step back further," Harry pressed. "Wizards don't have much time left. Muggles will discover the magical world's existence soon—within a decade, even."
Harry's words doused Fudge's anger like a bucket of ice water, chilling the pride he held in his wizarding identity.
"What do you mean?" Fudge asked hoarsely.
"The elemental resurgence is inevitable," Harry said evenly. "It's a global shift, not confined to Britain. With or without me, with or without shaman priests, the elements will awaken across the world, everywhere, visible to all."
"Milk in the kitchen jumping around overnight, gardens overrun with earth elementals by morning, skies flashing with lightning from battling air elementals—these won't just happen in wizarding homes. Every Muggle household will face this."
"The Ministry can't Obliviate every Muggle's memory. They'll realize the supernatural exists. They'll discover magic."
"They'll find their own ways to harness elemental power—through their technology or by forging pacts with the elements through sheer talent." Harry fixed his gaze on Fudge's panicked face. "I'm just a forerunner, not a creator. With or without me, wizarding society will face this upheaval."
Fudge was dazed, breathing heavily, his mind reeling but grasping at nothing.
"Of course, that's all in the future," Harry said, shifting tone. "By then, you might not be Minister anymore, so you won't have to deal with it… Let's get back to Sirius."
"You're threatening me," Fudge rasped. "You're too bold. Those words alone could land you in Azkaban!"
"Try it," Harry said with a smile. "See how many would back you."
Bang!
Fudge slammed his fist on the desk, forcing himself to take deep breaths to calm his agitation. Everything was so different from what he'd imagined. Even after Rita's private meeting had convinced him Harry was no mere child, facing him now left Fudge feeling powerless.
This boy didn't see him—or the Ministry. He was resolute, pursuing his own path, unmoved by anyone's opinion.
Like Dumbledore.
No, even more confident than Dumbledore.
Fudge thought of the photos in The Daily Prophet—elemental giants taller than castles, wielding formidable elemental magic.
"…I need to stay in office," Fudge said, closing his eyes. "You have to help me. Use your influence to sway the common wizards, convince Dumbledore. I don't care what you're planning or what your blasted elemental resurgence brings. Maybe I'll care later, but I need to be Minister when that time comes."
"Lucius Malfoy's one of yours, isn't he? He's spoken to me privately," Fudge said with a cold smirk. "The Boy Who Lived, cozying up to former Death Eaters? You're ambitious, Professor Potter. That professor title's just a mask."
"Think what you like," Harry said, unfazed.
"I said I don't care!" Fudge growled. "I'll even help you bypass the Statute of Secrecy! The British wizarding world won't bow to the International Confederation of Wizards. Do you understand?"
Fudge had long wanted this conversation—not as the celebrated Minister but as a potential ally.
"Then handle Sirius's case first," Harry said, sipping his butterbeer. "A Ministry-initiated retrial carries different weight than one I'd have to force through a lawsuit. At least in this, you'll get what you want. Barty Crouch won't be a threat to you anymore."
"Can't we settle this privately?" Fudge asked, reluctant. "Imprisoning an innocent man for twelve years… it's too much. It's about the Ministry's reputation. We could release Sirius from Azkaban, not pursue him, pretend he doesn't exist."
"What do you think?" Harry gave a mocking smile. "I expect to see Sirius's retrial announced in tomorrow's Daily Prophet. And when it happens, my father's spirit will testify."
"Your father's spirit…" Fudge muttered. "Merlin's beard, that sounds bizarre. So what that woman said was true? You can summon the souls of the dead, not just ghosts?"
"Of course," Harry said cryptically. "If things go smoothly, we might even summon Peter Pettigrew's soul for a confrontation."
"What?" Fudge's eyes widened.
Events moved faster than Harry expected. Before he could sue the Ministry, he received a summons from the Wizengamot—Peter Pettigrew's mother, Mary, had filed a complaint against him.
The old woman had stormed into the Ministry, shouting in the Atrium for all to hear that Harry Potter was a liar, that James Potter was a fraud, and that her son was no traitor. The Wizengamot had taken up her case.
The matter couldn't be hushed up. Rita, the principled journalist shaped by Harry's guidance, sent him a letter with the news and published a fair, balanced report in The Daily Prophet, favoring neither Harry nor Mary Pettigrew.
What seemed a settled matter—Sirius's imminent acquittal—suddenly faced complications. Wizards buzzed with excitement over Mary's outburst, sharing their opinions. Due to the cases' connection, the Wizengamot decided to retry Sirius's case and rule on Mary's accusation against Harry based on the outcome.
It was simple: if Sirius was innocent, Peter was guilty, and vice versa.
Most sided with Harry. After all, James Potter's spirit had personally told a reporter the truth—how could that be false?
Fudge, having made his decision, acted with astonishing speed. The next day's paper announced the Wizengamot's retrial. By the fifth day, the hearing was underway.
It was the same route to the Ministry as last time, but now Harry didn't need Mr. Weasley's escort. An Auror Office employee guided him.
Level Two, Wizengamot Administration Services, Courtroom One.
The room had been magically expanded, larger than the courtroom Harry had visited before, with more spectators.
This time, Dumbledore wasn't there as a defense attorney but as Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot, seated at the center of the high bench. Beside him sat Minister Fudge, who—while not particularly clever and certainly ambitious—was a skilled politician. His demeanor now, all smiles and warmth, was a stark contrast to his agitation in Harry's presence days ago.
When Harry entered Courtroom One, he didn't feel like a defendant. It was more like a fan meet-and-greet. Jurors in the stands waved at him, and even some Wizengamot members nodded in greeting.
Far from the usual tension of the solemn courtroom, Harry even paused to answer an elemental magic question for a Wizengamot wizard seated at the edge of the stands, promising to follow up via owl.
Courtroom One's layout was standard: a bloodstained chair sat in the center, its armrests bound with writhing chains that twisted like snakes, intimidating anyone who approached. Sirius sat in that chair, his hands and feet tightly bound.
"Long time no see," Harry said lightly, after greeting the crowd and promising the Wizengamot wizard further answers. "You look like you've been doing alright."
Sirius had been cleaned up, a far cry from the haggard Azkaban veteran. His hair was washed and trimmed, his prison robes spotless, his face free of grime.
"They pulled me out suddenly," Sirius said, his eyes fixed on Harry since he'd entered. He grinned. "Gave me food, let me bathe—I knew you'd done something. You know, Harry, you look like a big shot now."
"Maybe you should call me Professor Potter," Harry teased. "Who knows? I might even be Hogwarts' Headmaster someday."
"Hahaha!" Sirius burst into laughter, his voice echoing through the courtroom, silencing the whispers. He couldn't stop.
Harry frowned slightly. Sirius's mental state didn't seem normal. Even days after leaving Azkaban, that brutal prison had left its mark on him.
Hopefully, a stable life would heal him in time.
Suddenly, Harry felt a venomous glare. He turned to its source and saw an old witch in a brown robe, her exposed skin wrinkled, her black eyes gleaming with hatred.
If looks could kill, Harry would already be dead.