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The interrogation room was nothing like the courtroom where Harry had faced the Wizengamot the previous summer. Instead of towering stone walls, this space felt almost civilized—polished oak table, comfortable chairs, and soft magical lighting. Harry supposed that was intentional; they wanted him cooperative, not defensive.
Madam Amelia Bones sat across from him, her square jaw set in professional neutrality as she arranged a stack of parchments. Her monocle caught the light as she glanced up, and Harry was struck again by how different she seemed from the stern figure who had presided over his trial. Kingsley Shacklebolt stood near the door.
"Well then, Mr. Potter," Bones began, her quill poised over a fresh piece of parchment. "Shall we begin with what happened tonight? In your own words, please."
Harry was very calm. "I was in my bedroom, reading. It was just past midnight when this house-elf appeared—"
"Appeared how?" Bones interrupted gently. "House-elf magic leaves distinct traces. Did you hear the characteristic crack of Apparition?"
"Yes, a sharp crack. Very loud." Harry said calmly. "The elf called himself Reggy. He said he was there to kill me and my relatives."
Bones's quill scratched across the parchment. "Those were his exact words?"
"He said, 'Reggy is here to kill Harry Potter and his dear relatives.' Then he claimed I was protecting the Dursleys with wards, that he could smell it."
"Interesting." Bones made another note. "House-elves are typically bound by their nature to serve and protect wizards. For one to actively seek harm..." She trailed off, shaking her head. "Continue, please."
"He attacked immediately. Yellow curse. I don't know what it was, but it would have killed me if I hadn't dodged. Then he started using magic I've never seen before."
Kingsley spoke up from his position by the door. "What kind of magic?"
"He made my floor liquid, like quicksand. Exploded my window and controlled the glass shards like they were alive. The air around me became thick as honey. I could barely breathe." Despite what he was saying, Harry's voice remained calm. "And he had this glowing red arm. Said fire made him stronger."
"A glowing red arm?" Bones leaned forward, her monocle gleaming. "That's not in any of our records for house-elf magic."
"He claimed he was older than my bloodline. Said he remembered when wizards learned magic from elves." Harry met her gaze steadily. "I was completely outmatched. He was toying with me."
"But you fought back," Kingsley observed. "The magical residue we detected suggests you used considerable force."
"I used whatever I could to survive. Standard spells did nothing. My fire curse just made his arm glow brighter. I was getting desperate when I remembered the spell I'd used at the Ministry."
"The chain spell," Bones said, consulting her notes. "Catena Cruenta, according to the magical signature analysis. Where did you learn this magic, Mr. Potter?"
"I didn't learn it anywhere." Harry's voice was still calm. "It just... happened. First time was after Bellatrix Lestrange killed...Sirius. I was angry, desperate to stop her, and suddenly there were these red chains."
"Spontaneous spell creation is extraordinarily rare," Bones said carefully. "Usually requiring years of theoretical study and advanced understanding of magical principles."
"Well, apparently I'm a special case," Harry replied with a bitter laugh. "Seems to be the story of my life."
Bones and Kingsley exchanged a meaningful look. "Mr. Potter," she said slowly, "are you aware that your magical signature has been... altered since your experience in the Department of Mysteries?"
Harry went very still. "Altered how?"
"We're not entirely certain. The Department of Mysteries has been studying the Veil for centuries, trying to understand its properties. What we do know is that no one has ever returned from beyond it." Her voice grew gentle. "You accomplished the impossible, Mr. Potter. There may be consequences we don't yet understand."
"Consequences like spontaneous chain magic?"
"Perhaps. Your magical core shows enhanced resonance, heightened sensitivity to ambient magic. It's possible your time beyond the Veil has awakened dormant abilities." Bones set down her quill, studying him intently. "We've flagged your signature for monitoring, but not for punishment, for research. If we can understand what happened to you, it might help us better comprehend one of magic's greatest mysteries."
Harry absorbed this information, unsure whether to feel relieved or worried. "So I'm not in trouble for using unknown magic?"
"Mr. Potter," Kingsley said with something approaching warmth, "house-elf attacks on wizards are so extraordinarily rare that we've only recorded three cases in the past five hundred years. All were elderly elves whose binding magic had degraded due to their masters' deaths. This Reggy creature..." He shook his head. "What you've described defies everything we know about house-elf limitations."
"Indeed," Bones agreed. "You defended yourself against an unprovoked assault using whatever means necessary. The fact that your defensive magic was both unknown and effective is remarkable, not criminal."
"Then I'm free to go?"
"Not quite yet." Bones smiled slightly. "Minister Scrimgeour has specifically requested a meeting with you. He's rather eager to make your acquaintance."
"Is that a request or a command?"
"A request," Bones assured him. "Though I suspect you'll find Minister Scrimgeour rather different from his predecessor."
"Different how?" Harry asked. Tonks had said the same thing, that this new Minister wasn't like the old one.
"He actually believes Voldemort has returned, for one thing," Kingsley said dryly. "And he's not in the habit of putting teenagers on trial for defending themselves."
"Small mercies," Harry muttered.
Bones gathered her parchments. "You've been through a traumatic experience tonight, Mr. Potter. The Minister understands that. This meeting is as much about ensuring your wellbeing as anything else."
Harry doubted that, but he nodded anyway. After everything he'd endured, Umbridge's blood quill, Fudge's persecution, the Daily Prophet's smear campaign, he'd learned to be deeply suspicious of Ministry officials bearing reassurances.
"One more thing," Bones added as she stood. "Your friend Miss Tonks spoke quite passionately about your need for proper protection. The blood wards at your relatives' home clearly failed tonight."
"They've been failing for a while," Harry said quietly. "I never considered Privet Drive home."
"Yes, well. That's something the Minister will want to discuss with you." She moved toward the door, then paused. "Mr. Potter? For what it's worth, I'm glad you survived tonight. Both the attack and what came before it."
As the door closed behind her, leaving Harry alone with his thoughts and the lingering scent of parchment and ink, he couldn't help but wonder what fresh complications awaited him in the Minister's office. One thing was certain, after tonight, his quiet summer of secret training was well and truly over.
The waiting room felt like a velvet trap, all burgundy leather chairs and mahogany side tables that probably cost more than the Dursleys' entire living room set. Harry sank into one of the chairs, but the expensive comfort only made his skin crawl. Everything here was designed to make visitors feel important while they waited to be used.
The walls were lined with moving portraits of former Ministry officials, their painted eyes following him with the kind of polite interest that made Harry want to hex something. He'd had enough of being watched, studied, and catalogued to last several lifetimes.
The door opened with a soft click, and Tonks slipped inside, her hair a subdued brown that told Harry more about her mood than words could. She looked as drained as he felt.
"Finished giving your report?" Harry asked, though he already knew the answer from her expression.
"Three bloody hours of it," Tonks said, dropping into the chair beside him with less grace than usual. "They wanted to know everything, the magical signatures, the timing, what you had for dinner, probably what color socks you were wearing."
"Red," Harry said automatically. "With holes in the toes."
That earned him a tired smile. "Of course they were." She studied his face, her trained Auror eyes cataloguing details. "How are you holding up?"
Harry considered the question seriously. How was he holding up? The honest answer was that he felt like a piece of parchment that had been crumpled, smoothed out, crumpled again, and was now being prepared for yet another bout of rough handling.
"I keep thinking about last year," he said finally. "The trial, the Dementor attack, all of it. Fudge hauled me in front of the entire Wizengamot because I cast a Patronus to save my cousin. Now I've used completely unknown magic to nearly kill a house-elf, and they're treating me like a curious research subject instead of a dangerous criminal."
"Different Minister, different priorities," Tonks said pragmatically. "Scrimgeour actually believes Voldemort's back, which puts you on the right side of history for once."
"Lucky me." Harry's voice carried enough acid to etch glass. "Though I notice they still want to parade me around for political gain. Some things never change."
Tonks shifted in her chair, turning to face him more fully. "Harry, you need to understand something about Rufus Scrimgeour. He's not Fudge, he's smarter, more ruthless, and infinitely more ambitious. He sees you as a weapon in his arsenal against Voldemort."
"I'm not anyone's weapon."
"I know that, and you know that, but he's going to try to convince you otherwise." Her voice dropped to the tone she used for Auror briefings. "He'll offer you things, protection, resources, information. All of it will come with strings attached."
Harry leaned back in his chair, staring at the ornate ceiling where golden phoenixes chased each other in endless circles. The metaphor wasn't lost on him. "What kind of strings?"
"Public appearances. Endorsements. Carefully scripted statements about how the Ministry is doing everything right and the public should have faith in their leadership." Tonks's hair darkened another shade. "He wants to turn you into a symbol, Harry. The Boy Who Lived, standing shoulder to shoulder with the Ministry against the forces of darkness."
The thought made Harry's stomach churn, but another part of his mind, the part that had been carefully cataloguing Dumbledore's failures and planning his own independence, began to calculate. If Scrimgeour wanted to use him, that meant he had something the Minister needed. And things that were needed could be traded.
"What if I don't cooperate?" Harry asked.
"I don't think he will do anything drastic, he is not Fudge, but he can make your life more difficult, and he and the Ministry will not support you, and he might try to convince others that siding with you is not a good idea, he might try to paint you as Dumbledore's puppet."
"So my choices are puppet or completely alone."
"Those are the choices he'll present to you, yes." Tonks met his eyes directly. "But you're not the same boy who sat in that courtroom last year, are you? You've learned things. About magic, about people, about how power really works."
She was right. He wasn't the same frightened fifteen-year-old who had stumbled through Fudge's political ambush. He'd walked through the Veil and come back changed. He'd broken with Dumbledore and survived it. He'd been training, learning, growing stronger.
"If he wants my cooperation," Harry said slowly, "then he's going to have to pay for it."
"Now you're thinking like a Slytherin...a Good one," Tonks's approval was evident in her voice. "What do you want from him?"
Harry closed his eyes, letting his mind work through the possibilities. What did he actually need? What could a Minister of Magic provide that would be worth the cost of public association?
"Justice," he said finally. "For Sirius, for what happened to me last year, for all of it. And protection, real protection, not just political theater."
"Scrimgeour might actually be able to deliver on that," Tonks said thoughtfully. "He's got the political will that Fudge lacked."
"Then we'll see how much my cooperation is really worth to him." Harry opened his eyes, and Tonks was struck by how much older they looked than they had just months ago. "I won't be anyone's puppet, but I'm not stupid enough to refuse help when it's offered."
"Just remember," Tonks said softly, "every favor comes with a price. Make sure you know what you're paying before you agree to anything."
Harry nodded, his mind already working through potential demands, concessions, and the careful balance of give and take that seemed to define adult relationships. The boy who had blindly trusted authority figures was gone, replaced by someone who understood that power was currency and cooperation was a transaction.
The only question now was whether Minister Scrimgeour was prepared to pay Harry's asking price.
.
.
The Minister's office felt like stepping into the den of a apex predator who had decorated with the bones of his enemies. Everything was designed to project strength, dark wood that gleamed like armor, magical portraits of stern-faced wizards who radiated authority, and a massive desk that could have doubled as a shield wall. Harry settled into the chair across from it, his posture relaxed but alert, like a duelist waiting for his opponent to draw.
When Rufus Scrimgeour entered, Harry understood immediately why the man had clawed his way to the top of the Ministry food chain. He moved like a lion.
"Mr. Potter." Scrimgeour's voice carried through the room as he rounded his desk. "Thank you for agreeing to meet with me."
"Minister." Harry's tone was politely neutral. "Though I suspect 'agreeing' is perhaps too generous a word."
A smile ghosted across Scrimgeour's weathered features as he took his seat. "Direct. I appreciate that in a man." He steepled his fingers, studying Harry. "I imagine you have questions about tonight's events."
"I have questions about many things," Harry replied smoothly. "Tonight's events are merely the most recent addition to a rather extensive list."
"Such as?"
"Such as why the Ministry spent an entire year painting me as either a delusional attention-seeker or a dangerous dark wizard, only to suddenly decide I'm worth protecting."
Scrimgeour had the grace not to flinch. "The previous administration made regrettable mistakes in their handling of your situation. Cornelius was... shall we say, overly concerned with maintaining the appearance of stability rather than addressing the reality of our circumstances."
"Regrettable mistakes." Harry tasted the words like wine gone sour. "Is that what we're calling Dolores Umbridge's blood quill? Sending Dementors to attack me in Little Whinging? Fudge hauling a fifteen-year-old before the full Wizengamot for defending himself?"
"I said regrettable, Mr. Potter. I didn't say forgivable."
"How refreshingly honest of you, Minister." Harry's voice could have frosted glass. "Though I notice you stopped short of an actual apology."
"Would you believe one if I offered it?"
Harry considered it seriously, recognizing the trap within the trap. If he said yes, he'd appear naive. If he said no, he'd seem unreasonably hostile. Either answer would hand Scrimgeour an advantage.
"I might," Harry said finally, "if it came with meaningful action rather than empty words."
"Ah." Scrimgeour leaned back in his chair, and Harry caught a flash of genuine approval in those calculating eyes. "Now we're getting to the heart of the matter, aren't we?"
"Are we?"
"Indeed. You see, Mr. Potter, I find myself in need of something only you can provide, while you, I suspect, find yourself in need of things only the Ministry can offer. This strikes me as the foundation for a mutually beneficial arrangement."
Harry said nothing, letting the silence stretch until it became uncomfortable. It was a technique Snape had inadvertently taught him—sometimes the most powerful response was no response at all.
Scrimgeour was the first to break. "Public morale is at its lowest point since You Know Who was at his most powerful during the first war. His return has shattered the illusion of safety that most wizarding families took for granted. People are frightened, Mr. Potter. Frightened people make poor decisions, and poor decisions lose wars."
"And you believe my endorsement would calm their fears?"
"I believe your endorsement would give them hope." Scrimgeour's voice carried the weight of absolute conviction. "You're the Boy Who Lived, the only wizard to ever survive the Killing Curse. More than that, you're the wizard who stood in the Ministry's own halls and declared You Know Who's return when everyone else was too cowardly to speak the truth."
Harry felt something cold settle in his stomach. "You want me to be your tool."
"I want you to be our symbol." The correction was swift and pointed. "The Ministry and the Chosen One, working together to protect magical Britain from the forces of darkness."
"Chosen One?" Harry's eyebrows rose fractionally. "That's an interesting phrase, Minister. What exactly do you think I was chosen for?"
Scrimgeour waved a dismissive hand. "The specifics matter less than the perception. People need to believe that destiny is on our side, that we have advantages You Know Who lacks."
Harry stared at the Minister for a long moment, processing the implications. Scrimgeour didn't know about the prophecy—didn't know that Harry was genuinely prophesied to be the one to defeat Voldemort. He was simply gambling on the symbolic power of the idea, using Harry's reputation to bolster public confidence in the Ministry's ability to win the war.
It was brilliant, in a coldly calculating way. And it told Harry exactly how much leverage he actually possessed.
"I see." Harry's voice was thoughtful, as if he was only now beginning to understand the scope of what was being offered. "And in exchange for this public support, what would the Ministry be prepared to offer?"
"Protection, for one thing. Real protection, not the half-measures that clearly failed tonight." Scrimgeour leaned forward. "Resources. Information. Access to magical knowledge and training that would normally be restricted to fully qualified Aurors."
"Speaking of which," Scrimgeour continued, his tone shifting to something almost conversational, "I understand you have aspirations to join the Auror Corps after completing your education at Hogwarts. That could be easily arranged, naturally. The right recommendations, accelerated training programs, priority placement..."
"That's very generous, Minister. But I'm afraid my current priority is somewhat more immediate than career planning."
"Oh?"
"Survival." The word dropped between them like a stone into still water. "Everything else is rather academic until Voldemort is dead."
Scrimgeour's eyes sharpened with what might have been respect. "A pragmatic viewpoint."
"The only rational one, under the circumstances." Harry said casually. "Tell me, Minister, what exactly would this public support entail? I've had quite enough of being the Ministry's dancing bear."
"Carefully managed appearances. Selected interviews with approved journalists. Perhaps a few photo opportunities showing you working closely with Ministry officials." Scrimgeour's tone suggested these were minor inconveniences rather than the soul-crushing political theater Harry knew they would be.
"Controlled propaganda, in other words."
"Effective messaging," Scrimgeour corrected smoothly. "The truth, presented in its most compelling form."
Harry almost smiled at that. Almost. "And what truth would that be, exactly?"
"That the Ministry of Magic and the Chosen One stand united against the forces of darkness. That Harry Potter has confidence in our leadership and our methods. That victory is not only possible but inevitable, because we have advantages our enemies cannot match."
The words were polished, focus-tested, probably rehearsed in front of a mirror. They were also completely hollow, and Harry suspected Scrimgeour knew it as well as he did.
"I see." Harry steepled his own fingers, unconsciously mirroring the Minister's earlier gesture. "And if I were to decline this generous offer?"
"Then you would, of course, be free to pursue your own path." Scrimgeour's smile was sharp as a blade. "Though I imagine you'd find that path considerably more difficult without Ministry support. Particularly given the... unusual nature of your magical development since the Department of Mysteries incident."
Harry found himself genuinely impressed. Scrimgeour was everything Fudge had never been—intelligent, ruthless, and utterly without the self-deception that had made his predecessor so easy to manipulate. This was a man who understood power and wasn't afraid to use it.
Unfortunately for the Minister, Harry had learned a few things about power himself.
"An intriguing proposition," Harry said, his tone giving nothing away. "Though I suspect you'll understand if I don't simply accept your first offer. After all, if my cooperation is as valuable as you suggest, then surely it's worth more than vague promises and veiled threats."
Scrimgeour's smile widened, and for the first time since entering the office, Harry saw genuine pleasure in the man's eyes. "Indeed it is, Mr. Potter. Indeed it is. What did you have in mind?"
"Several things, actually," Harry said, settling back in his chair with the satisfied air of a negotiator who had just gained the upper hand. "Shall we discuss terms? I have four specific requirements that must be met before I'll consider any public association with your administration."
"I'm listening." Scrimgeour said right away.
"First," Harry said, his tone crisp and businesslike, "Dolores Umbridge must be arrested and prosecuted to the full extent of magical law. She sent Dementors to attack me in Little Whinging—a clear violation of the Decree for the Reasonable Restriction of Underage Sorcery, not to mention attempted murder. She also tortured students under her care using a blood quill, which I believe violates several statutes regarding the abuse of minors."
Scrimgeour's eyebrows rose fractionally. "Those are serious accusations, Mr. Potter."
"They're serious crimes, Minister." Harry's voice could have cut glass. "I have the scars to prove the blood quill, and there were witnesses to the Dementor attack and I have witness of her admiting that she was the one who sent the dementors. Surely the Ministry's investigative resources are sufficient to build a case."
"Indeed they are." Scrimgeour made a note on the parchment beside his elbow. "Though I trust you understand that even with compelling evidence, proper legal procedures must be followed. We cannot simply throw someone into Azkaban based on accusations, however credible."
"Of course not." Harry's agreement came smoothly, but his eyes remained hard. "I wouldn't want anyone to suffer the same fate as my godfather—condemned without trial, imprisoned without evidence. Justice delayed by bureaucracy is preferable to justice denied entirely."
The barb struck home. Scrimgeour's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly, but he nodded. "A fair point. Madam Umbridge will receive a thorough investigation and, if the evidence warrants it, a full trial before the Wizengamot."
"Excellent." Harry made his own note, though his was mental rather than physical. One demand granted, with reasonable caveats. Time to push his luck. "Second, I want a complete accounting of the Death Eaters captured at the Department of Mysteries. Their current status, expected trial dates, and likely sentences."
"That's easily provided." Scrimgeour consulted a different parchment, his movements suggesting this was information he'd expected to share. "Lucius Malfoy, Antonin Dolohov, Augustus Rookwood, and six others are currently awaiting trial in the Ministry's holding cells. The cases are largely procedural, they were caught red-handed in the act of committing numerous crimes, including assault on Ministry personnel and attempted murder of minors."
"Red-handed indeed," Harry agreed, though his tone suggested he was building toward something more complex. "I assume they'll receive the standard Azkaban sentences?"
"Life imprisonment, most likely. The evidence is overwhelming."
Harry was quiet for a long moment, his gaze fixed on something beyond Scrimgeour's shoulder. When he spoke again, his voice carried a weight that made the Minister sit up straighter.
"With respect, Minister, I don't think Azkaban is sufficient."
"I beg your pardon?"
"They should be executed." The words dropped into the silence like stones into a deep well. "All of them."
Scrimgeour's carefully maintained composure cracked, revealing genuine surprise beneath. "Mr. Potter, that's... quite a departure from your usual stance on such matters."
"My usual stance," Harry said with bitter precision, "was formed when I believed in the rule of law and the possibility of redemption. Recent events have provided a more practical education." He met Scrimgeour's eyes directly. "Voldemort is back, Minister. The Dementors have abandoned Azkaban to join him. Those prisoners won't suffer in their cells—they'll simply wait for their master to free them, adding their wands and their knowledge to his forces."
"And if they're dead?"
"Then Voldemort loses experienced lieutenants, and the remaining Death Eaters receive a clear message about the consequences of their choices." Harry's smile was sharp enough to draw blood. "Fear is a language everyone understands since the moment they feel it, Minister. Perhaps it's time we became fluent."
Scrimgeour stared at him for a long moment, and Harry could practically see the man's mental image of the Boy Who Lived crumbling and reforming into something considerably more dangerous.
"That's... not the advice I expected from Harry Potter," Scrimgeour said finally.
"Harry Potter the symbol might disagree," Harry replied evenly. "Harry Potter the person who's watched friends die and enemies escape justice repeatedly finds the logic compelling."
"I'll... consider your recommendation." The words came slowly, as if Scrimgeour was still processing this new version of the boy he'd thought he understood. "Though such measures would require significant political maneuvering."
"Of course." Harry moved on as if discussing execution orders was perfectly routine. "Third demand: Nymphadora Tonks is to be assigned as my official bodyguard, with full Ministry authority and resources."
"Granted." The relief in Scrimgeour's voice suggested he was grateful for a request he could fulfill without moral complications. "Auror Tonks has already proven herself capable of protecting you, and frankly, your safety is a Ministry priority regardless of our other arrangements."
"And fourth," Harry continued, his tone suggesting he was saving the most important for last, "I require exemption from the Decree for the Reasonable Restriction of Underage Sorcery. I need to be able to defend myself without worrying about Ministry persecution."
Scrimgeour's expression tightened. "Mr. Potter, that statute exists for good reason. Underage wizards lack the control and judgment—"
"Minister." Harry's interruption was gentle but implacable. "I've survived encounters with Voldemort, faced down Dementors, battled Death Eaters, and returned from beyond the Veil itself. I think we can safely assume I'm not your typical underage wizard."
"The Wizengamot would never approve such a blanket exemption."
"Then it's fortunate I'm not asking for one." Harry's smile was perfectly reasonable and utterly inflexible. "My primary magical development has been in wandless casting, which is considerably more difficult for your monitoring systems to detect. I'm simply asking for official acknowledgment that my unique circumstances warrant special consideration."
The distinction was subtle but crucial, and Harry could see Scrimgeour working through the implications. Wandless magic was indeed harder to trace, and Harry was essentially offering to practice his more questionable abilities in a way that would give the Ministry political cover if questions arose.
"You're quite certain your wandless abilities are sufficiently developed for self-defense?"
"Would you like a demonstration?"
"That won't be necessary." Scrimgeour made another note. "Very well. Limited exemption for wandless magic in matters of self-defense, subject to review if circumstances change."
Harry inclined his head graciously. "Acceptable."
"Four demands, all granted with reasonable caveats." Scrimgeour set down his quill and studied Harry with newfound respect. "I admit, Mr. Potter, you've proven more sophisticated in these negotiations than I anticipated."
"I've had excellent teachers, Minister. Some of them even meant to be." Harry leaned back in his chair, projecting satisfied confidence. "Now then, as a gesture of good faith on my part, I'd like to share something that might prove useful in your propaganda efforts."
"Oh?"
"Voldemort's real name." Harry let the words hang in the air like bait. "His identity before he became the Dark Lord."
Scrimgeour went very still. "You have that information?"
"Tom Marvolo Riddle." Harry spoke the name. "Born 1926, educated at Hogwarts, sorted into Slytherin House. Half-blood."
The Minister's eyes widened as the implications hit him. "Half-blood? You're certain?"
"Completely. Rather undermines his pure-blood supremacy message, doesn't it?"
"Indeed it does." Scrimgeour was practically vibrating with excitement. "His own followers would be appalled to learn their 'pure-blood' leader is actually a half-blood with Muggle ancestry."
"Precisely. Though I'd suggest saving this revelation for maximum impact." Harry's smile was purely predatory now. "Nothing quite like destroying an enemy's credibility when they least expect it."
"You've given this considerable thought."
"I've given many things considerable thought, Minister. The war, politics, the various ways information can be weaponized..." Harry trailed off meaningfully. "One learns to think strategically when one's survival depends on it."
Scrimgeour nodded slowly, his expression suggesting he was rapidly revising his entire assessment of the young man across from him. "Indeed one does. Very well, Mr. Potter, I believe we have the foundation for a mutually beneficial arrangement."
"Excellent. Now, I need to know what happened to my godfather's inheritence."
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