Chapter 186: Praise?
"To achieve great things, certain methods are unavoidable."
"Like murdering a newborn Qilin to seize control of the International Confederation of Wizards?" Dumbledore shot him a sideways glance. "If it were Ryan, he would never have done such a thing in that situation."
Gellert nodded in agreement with Dumbledore's assessment. "I agree. His methods have already shown us: unite a group of people, then kick the Minister of Magic directly off his pedestal."
"Actually, what Ryan wanted to do was to storm the British Ministry, dismantle every ounce of support Fudge had right in front of everyone, and then install his own people," Dumbledore said. "His most instinctive reaction is to solve problems with violence. It's only because of me, and all the professors who teach him, guiding him, that he attempts to solve problems within the rules to some extent."
Gellert clicked his tongue. Back when he was a Durmstrang outcast, even he wasn't that violent. When he encountered problems, he still considered non-magical solutions; he simply didn't rule out magical ones, maintaining a flexible range of options.
He felt Ryan was a bit single-minded, believing violence could solve everything.
Beside him, Dumbledore's expression wasn't the "worrying he'll turn bad" look Ryan imagined.
Dumbledore was merely troubled. "Now that the Squibs have rallied around him, the landscape of the wizarding world has changed. You know those wizards in power. Regardless of their personal morals, whether noble or base, when faced with a new player crashing their game, they will bare their fangs. Sigh... what will happen next?"
Gellert didn't need to think; the answer came instantly. "It's simple. Those powerful wizards won't target Ryan. He's our student; he starts from an unassailable position. Choosing Ryan as an opponent would be an exercise in humiliation."
"But," he continued, "those Squibs—weak, ignorant, a naturally vulnerable group. Even if Ryan considers their education and growth, that takes time. And time is something the crocodiles smelling blood won't give him."
Dumbledore agreed with Gellert's judgment completely.
He knew Ryan would find someone with status and ability to help the Squibs, ensuring their right to learn and grow—establishing a school, defining their rights and responsibilities, and so on.
But against the spontaneous actions of the global wizarding power structure... aside from the combined prestige of Dumbledore and Nicolas Flamel, no one else could suppress them.
More importantly, Squibs were weak and easily bullied. Even with external aids allowing them to cast magic, they remained a very vulnerable group.
A vulnerable group, massive profits.
It wasn't a hard calculation to make.
Because the Wizengamot was composed of respected elders, its efficiency was... leisurely. It had yet to push through legislation regarding the dereliction of duty by a sitting Minister of Magic.
So, Fudge sat idle at home, day after day, filled with anxiety, worrying that the tribunal would convict him of some major crime and throw him into Azkaban.
The waiting was a daily torture.
It was hard to say this wasn't intentional.
His most frequent action now was reading the Daily Prophet, scanning it countless times in hopes of gleaning some insight into the Wizengamot's movements.
When today's Daily Prophet arrived by owl, he rushed to the window, snatching the paper so violently he startled the white owl, which hooted angrily and pecked hard at his windowpane.
But Fudge had no mood to care about a frightened owl.
He saw that all sectors of society were celebrating the birth of "Magi-Metal Wizards" in the Daily Prophet.
"Magi-Metal Wizards? What is that?"
Fudge was baffled. A wizard was a wizard. Why add a prefix?
And what was "Magi-Metal"?
He read on. The article detailed the birth of the Magi-Metal Wizards.
When did our magical history begin? Perhaps thousands of years before the Common Era. But throughout these millennia, has anyone ever cared for Squibs? Each of them is our relative, our friend! Our fellow kin!
Yet for thousands of years, Squibs have been oppressed and exploited! Insulted wantonly, denied their place in the magical world!
But one person is different! One person holds the world in his heart! One person wishes for all magical beings to live better lives!
He improved wizarding communication, bringing extraordinary impact. He researched the condition of Squibs, allowing them to embrace the light...
"Ryan Welles again..." Fudge took off his bowler hat, spinning it nervously in his hands.
Although Scrimgeour, Ralvin, and others had "saved" him, the person he hated most right now was Crouch at the Ministry.
But that didn't mean he wasn't wary of Ryan. Even out of office, he fantasized about one day regaining power.
He read the Daily Prophet article again carefully, noticing that many of the pieces were written by unknown nobodies or were simply anonymous.
He narrowed his eyes slightly, setting aside the hat he'd been twirling, and seriously studied the articles.
Calming down to analyze, the former Minister regained his rationality.
He discovered that almost all the articles were heaped with praise for Ryan—praise so excessive and cloying that even he, who regularly dealt with Umbridge, found it nauseating.
He admitted that Ryan enabling Squibs to cast magic was a groundbreaking event. But the praise wasn't limited to that.
It covered every field Ryan had touched, from his Communicator business empire to his prophecies.
Moreover, the story of Squibs casting magic had two protagonists: the creator and the subjects.
Yet all the articles focused solely on the creator. The subjects were glossed over, merely referred to as "lucky ones."
"Lucky ones... aren't necessarily lucky. And a genius wrapped in excessive praise isn't necessarily infallible... This is indisputable flattery, intended to kill. It's also avoiding the heavy to lift the light, preparing to carve up these 'lucky ones'..."
Fudge was incompetent, yes, but he possessed the basic political instincts and sensitivity required to reach the Minister's office.
He reached the same conclusion as Dumbledore: the sharks, smelling blood, were preparing to feast on this unclaimed cake. The difference was that Fudge believed Ryan would make mistakes amidst the deluge of praise.
Dumbledore believed he wouldn't.
Fudge threw the newspaper aside dejectedly. He had long since lost his chips to sit at this table; he was destined to be only a clear-eyed spectator.
"Crouch... you got lucky this time."
~~~
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